


No Strings Attached

by deadandgone



Category: My Chemical Romance, frerard - Fandom
Genre: AU, Artist!Gerard - Freeform, Bandom Big Bang, Drink Spiking, F/M, Guitar Shop AU, M/M, Pencey!Frank, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadandgone/pseuds/deadandgone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Right," says Gerard. "I don't know if anyone has noticed this, but I'm standing in the middle of the Pacific fucking Ocean with a bunch of hyper-active teenagers and a punk band. Also, our record manager is coming towards us with a bright pink blow-up dolphin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's the new fic! I'm super excited to be writing this, as it'll be completely different from my other frerard (which was pretty dark). I work in a guitar shop myself, and I was sorting out the back room when I saw this filthy mattress, and I imagined what it'd be like living and sleeping there. That thought turned into this fic. The chapter title is a song by The Strokes :~)

Gerard Way is twenty three and he hates his life.

Well, maybe that's a little dramatic. It's not as if he's starving to death or homeless or something like that. He doesn't even have a boring, office job in the city or a nosy girlfriend who yells at him when he forgets to put the toilet seat back down or clean up after he's made himself a bowl of cereal. Not anymore.

Even working at _Schechter's Strings: Guitar Enterprises_  isn't nearly as glamorous as it sounds. They have regulars and loyal customers, but the place is often dead for hours at a time. Gerard sometimes looks up at the peeling shop store front and feels betrayed: an "Enterprise" is a large expanse of something, it means intimidation and success.

The word suggests that there's more of these music shops, that they are an impressive and well-known branch all over America, and in reality it's anything but.

Walking along the sidewalk of 123rd street, in the self-consciously hip city of Manhattan, New York, Gerard feels like the small, faded building is the furthest thing _away_ from an enterprise. It's a fucking joke.

This makes him way angrier than it should. If he has nothing better than to do than obsess over a stupid name, then he probably isn't working hard enough.

Maybe he's too involved with the shop. After all, he'd been living in the back room since Eliza dumped him.

It does have it's perks, though. In the past he'd have to get up at eight o'-fucking-clock and freeze his ass off on a stupid station platform, only to shiver his way through a forty minute train ride in order to arrive at the shop and finally be warm.

Now, he gets to sleep in until 9:45, and even then he usually lies on the dusty mattress for a good ten minutes, willing the old, rusty alarm clock to shut the fuck _up_ so that he can get a few minutes extra beauty sleep. Every morning he'll stare at that goddamn hunk of junk and try to Jedi it back to silence. That hasn't worked so far, though, and his other tactics are just as ineffective. Pleading with the merciless device is useless; that just might be down to the fact that alarm clocks are inanimate objects and prone to feeling little to no empathy.

Still, what does he know? A customer brought the clock to the shop a good year ago for repairs and never came back for it. Brian put it out back and now it lives with Gerard. It's quite possible that it has magic powers.

After he loses that particular battle, Gerard heaves himself up and begins to dress. He blames his bad fashion sense on his lack of consciousness when he wrestles with a t-shirt and a pair of jeans: normally, he has no idea what he's wearing until about lunchtime.

He feels better after his morning coffee, and with the liquid warming his brittle bones he gets to work, sweeping the floor of the dirt the customers tramped in the day before and making sure all the new stuff they've bought is priced and on the shelves.

That usually gives him about twenty minutes before the store officially opens to catch up on the comic world using the computer. Because he always deletes his history, Brian genuinely believes that they only use it for pricing.

Speaking of the man, his boss arrives at ten sharp every morning, brushing snow off his shoulders or pathetically fanning himself and sweating, depending on the season. Gerard will have a project out on the counter, but he always takes time to grab a crumpled ten out of the till and gets Brian his morning coffee from the Starbucks across the street.

He owes Brian big time. Not only did he give Gerard a job when he barely knew him, but he also didn't object to letting him have the back room the morning he turned up for work with all his stuff in a couple of trash bags.

He does all the running around for food, coffee and paper towels, and because Brian doesn't know that he has his own coffee maker out back, he tells Gerard to grab himself a cup too.

If it's a Monday, Wednesday or Friday, Dewees will turn up half an hour late and start watching some dumb video on YouTube while blaring his hardcore, dub-step-screamo across the store speakers. He's the most chilled out person Gerard knows, but he's a goddamn genius when it comes to stuff like radios and VCR's, whereas Gerard can only do guitars.

Luckily for him, guitars and music accessories is what the store mostly sells, but they often do electrical repairs and make a considerable amount of money from it.

Maybe Gerard is too involved with the store, but it isn't like he has anything better to do. Mikey still lives in outer Jersey, and the wages aren't really good enough to regularly go out to clubs and bars. He doesn't mind though, because even if he had more money he'd still spend it on art supplies.

He's happy to spend the evenings in his back room, sketchbook on lap

Maybe one day he'll get a job as a comic intern, or some indie publishing company will take him on. If that happened he'd rent a cheap apartment, but until then he's just going to live a life of guitar-infused solitude; sleeping in the back room and surrounded by spare parts like a Victorian apprentice.

Today, some old dude has dropped in an clunky _Rickenbacker Tanglewood_ , complaining that the strings are rubbing off the frets. Gerard gets this problem a lot, so all it takes is a screwdriver and some patience and he's raised the action so that there's some space between them. He's putting the pickup back on when the guy returns and gets talking to Brian about the time he met Paul McCartney outside his hotel when he was visiting his buddy in Bristol ( _sure you did_ , thinks Gerard), but eventually he pays and leaves, and Gerard heaves a tired sigh.

He loves guitars. He probably loves them more than most humans, but that could be because they don't talk back and say scary things like _mortgages_ or _income tax_. Ever since Mikey first started playing at fourteen and he'd try to take apart and put back together his squire bass, Gerard's been messing with them. He's actually a pretty shit player. In fact, he was kicked out of a band in his teens for sucking at the goddamn instrument.

Having said that, he can change a set of strings in under forty seconds, and since he started working here two years ago, he's built two jazz basses and a fender imitation using only the old parts out back. He might not be able to play well, but he's somehow ended up knowing everything there is to know about the stringed machines.

 

Occasionally, he'll be sorting out the mess of cardboard boxes or fixing the blocked toilet, and he'll lift his head to look out the tiny, filthy window.

It works best if it's late, because then the moon is weakly shining onto his face and lighting up the room in silver. He'll pause whatever shitty, disgusting task he's doing and stare dramatically at the moon, whispering " _someday..._ "

He doesn't have the foggiest idea what _someday_  is, but he feels like a cool, misunderstood comic-book hero when he says it, so he does.

 

Maybe he is looking for something different, but the idea of leaving is pretty risky. It's pretty depressing to be so young and yet, to have settled down already. He could still make it as an artist, but his other fantasy, the one that involved sweaty rock shows and beer, seemed to have completely slipped out of his grasp.

But who knows? Gerard likes to believe that nothing's impossible, and he still has time to embark on the carefree and wild life he's always wanted to live. After two years of doing the same work and doing the same thing everyday, he'd sell his soul to escape normality.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he does need to get out more, because he ends up pouring his heart out to this stranger. He talks about how unsatisfied he feels, and all the times he's wanted to try his luck as a comic book artist, but didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really excited about this fic! My updates may be a little slow because i have my french exchange staying with me, and i need to take her out and show her around London. The chapter title is a song by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

It's fucking _cold_ when Gerard finally struggles out of his makeshift bed Friday morning. He nearly breaks his neck straight away by tripping over a guitar, and he curses his previous self's stupidity. He'd had the particularly tricky task of fixing a Japanese, imitation Les Paul, and he'd brought his work to bed with him.

The neck was completely messed up, causing the nut to snap off at odd times and the strings to clash together horribly when played. He'd lamely attempted to multitask and had ended up falling asleep, face first into his portfolio with the Les Paul clasped in his hands.

After he recovered from the heart attack of nearly falling flat on his face, he shuffled out into the main shop. An old lady had sold them a vintage record player the other day, and it sat on the shelf directly above the counter, gleaming proudly.

Gerard smiled at it as he heaved the Les Paul onto the counter. He'd completely fixed the neckline yesterday, now if he opened up the front plate and soldered the string's base points...

_Tap tap tap._

The red-hot soldering iron slipped out of his grasp and narrowly avoided his sock-clad foot. He looked up, frowning worriedly, to see some dude he'd never seen before, tapping insistently on the glass.

 _We're not open yet_ , he tries to mouth.

He probably just looks like a goldfish, because the guy only taps harder.

He's wearing a fucking _headband_ , and a lose, earth-green shirt with sleeves that have been rolled up. This, coupled with the beginnings of a stubbly beard and watery, red eyes, make him look like he's just stepped out of a sixties protest.

"Brian told me to come in before the shop opened and drop these off," he said, the minute that Gerard had opened the door a crack.

He motions importantly to the stack off boxes at his feet, which Gerard had just noticed. This didn't really give him any credibility though, the shop had a knack for attracting lunatics. This dude looked as high as a kite, and Gerard doesn't really feel comfortable letting him into the tiny shop. It wouldn't be the first time they'd had to call the police.

"Brain will here soon, you should wait outsi-"

"Great!"

The guy looks like he has a little chub, but he must at least know how to use it, because he brushes Gerard aside like a cobweb and enters the store.

"So, you work here?" He asks casually, setting the mysterious boxes down by the counter.

"Um, nah," says Gerard. "I just break in every morning and tidy the place. Fixing old guitars when no one's looking is my calling."

He's being a dick, and if the Hippy-dude picks up in the sarcasm, he doesn't call him out on it.

"I'm Spencer," he beams, holding out his hand.

"Gerard."

"You said that Brian'll be here soon? I'll wait!"

Gerard doesn't appear to have a say in anything anymore, so he goes back to straightening out the circuit while Spencer hovers over his shoulder.

After fifteen minutes, he isn't so worried about being killed as a way to protest the sending of troops to Vietnam.

Spencer knows a whole lot about Elvis Costello, and plays drums. He ends up being pretty useful when I comes to positioning the solder and screwing the whole thing back together. Gerard's used to spending a lot of time alone, and he usually lives for the quiet morning's work before the store opens and Brian and Dewees arrive. It makes a nice change to have someone talk to him, and, in turn, listen.

Maybe he does need to get out more, because he ends up pouring his heart out to this stranger. He talks about how unsatisfied he feels, and all the times he's wanted to try his luck as a comic book artist, but didn't.

Spencer is a really good listener, and by the time the Les Paul is as good as new once more, Gerard actually feels a little sad.

"You _really know_ guitars, dude."

Gerard isn't used to having people praise him. He shrugs it off and hopes that he isn't blushing too bad.

"It's my job, I guess."

"Well, you're fucking good at your job, man. Hey..."

Spencer leaned forward, looking suddenly hopeful.

"I'm touring with this band, and the front man is fucking _nuts_ , y'know? He plays really hard, and he smashed his guitar up pretty bad last night at a show. We're here for a week, you think you could fix it?"

"Um," Gerard blinks. "Sure, I mean...probably. If he brings it in then I'd know for sure."

" _Awesome_!"

 

Spencer seems really keen on watching Gerard mess about with the store guitars, so he gives him an extra feather duster and they go around cleaning them all together. They've just finished all of the acoustics when Brian enters.

"Hey," he says to Gerard as he unravels his scarf.

"Brian! Hey!"

For a moment, Brian freezes and he stares at Spencer like he's got two heads. Gerard briefly thinks that maybe his suspicions of his assistant being a crazy stoner guy are actually true, because his boss doesn't seem to recognize their guest. Then, Brian's face cracks into a huge grin and he comes forward, pulling Spencer into a tight hug.

"Spence, oh my God! What are you doing here, asshole?"

"We're doing some nights in the _city of dreams,_ dude," drawls Spencer. He leans on the counter and adjusts his headband. "The promoter finally paid up, so I've got some stuff we'll be replacing. Bren was gonna throw it all out, but then I thought of you."

The "stuff" was impressive. Spencer pulled out solid snare stands and sophisticated tuning pedals like they were no big deal. Gerard couldn't wait to get his hand on the re-verb on that thing. He imagined the sound you could get with a pedal like that, soft and swimming in psychedelia...

"Woah, man," Brian is also awed by the equipment Spencer's handing over. "You gotta let me pay you for this, you've got some good shit!"

"What about all the favors I pulled from you, huh?" Spencer laughs. "No way, I owe you, Bri."

"Aww shucks," says Brian, running a hand through his short hair. "Well, if you ever need some drum service, we'll fix it free of charge, 'kay?"

"Now you mention it..." Spencer is looking at Gerard, smiling. Gerard ducks his head, because he feels bad about being so pissy with the dude earlier, when he's obviously a close friend of his boss'.

"Your colleague said he wouldn't mind looking at a guitar sometime this week. We're touring with Pencey."

"Ahhh," says Brian, as if this explains everything. Is there something Gerard isn't getting? Is "Pencey" some kid of code-word.

Spencer stays for a good hour after that, talking to Brian about people Gerard's never heard of.

He's kind of surprised that the two are such good friends; Spencer looks to be the same age as him, maybe even a couple years younger. Brian is in his thirties, and the two guys make an unlikely pair.

"Dude, I dunno where I'd be if it wasn't for this guy here!" Spencer says to Gerard. Brian says "shut up," and rolls his eyes, but the bearded man continues.

"I'm serious! He hooked our band up with the best manager we've ever had! Things have been getting better and better ever since!"

"It was nothing," says Brian modestly. "I know people, is all."

"Well, Frank's gonna be glad," says Spencer. "He really fuckin' loves that guitar. He was almost _crying_ when he smashed it up. Thanks again, Gerard."

He leaves the store, and Gerard feels slightly shellshocked; like the time a bunch of guys in Jay-Z T-shirts mugged him outside of Walmart.

Brian shrugs and, still smiling, reminds him that he has to clear out the back shelves today before lunch, and then the strange feeling disappears and he's just an under-qualified idiot again.

There had been something about Spencer, something Gerard couldn't quite place his finger on. The bearded man had this weird, almost magic aura about him. The way he randomly appeared and left, as if he wasn't really there at all, it was as trippy as fuck.

But kind of cool. Spencer was definitely kind of cool.

And maybe this Pencey-Frank guy would be kind of cool too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the months leading up to his breakup with Eliza to this moment right now, he's been lost in a fog of his own, over-sensitized and probing thoughts. He remembers all the fights and screaming sessions. He hasn't been depressed as such, but everything he does is stale. Every thought and action is tainted and unpleasant like an after taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, chapter 3 is up after a long silence! i was away this week at camp, and there was no wifi whatsoever. I feel so bad about leaving you guys hanging, and I know I should have told you beforehand. I'm leaving Sunday evening for another week, and once again i doubt they'll be wifi. However, these long breaks give me time to make each chapter really polished and perfect, so that's something! The title of this chapter is a line from the song "Last Night" by The Strokes.

Brian remains in the same good mood for the next few days, putting up with Dewees playing his "shit" across the store speakers and "scaring all the customers away".

It's still freezing cold, but it's only late April, so Gerard has hope that they might get a reasonably warm summer. Whilst some people call themselves a "winter" or a "summer" person, he just craves the cold when it's hot and the hot when it's cold.

He's half convinced that Spencer's forgotten to tell this Frank dude to stop by, and he doesn't want to ask Brian for fear of sounding desperately needy. This keeps him on edge from Friday through to Thursday, and he's all fingers and thumbs whenever he has to fix something.

What's worse is that he doesn't know why. What's the big deal? Brian _does_ know a ton of people, and is friends with a lot of the customers. Why was Spencer (or more specifically, Frank) different?

Gerard wishes he knew.

He's resting for once when the store bell rings and he has to look up and welcome whoever's come in. He had been eating his lunch and absent-mindedly reading his worn copy of _Doom Patrol_ , and now he had to haul himself off his ass to sell some pretentious, three-chord douchebag a set of strings.

He sighs and straightens up.

First of all, this guy doesn't look like a douche. He's small and lean and fucking _attractive_. A scorpion tattoo peeks out from the edge of his shirt collar and he thinks he can see more on the guy's hands and knuckles when he rests his palms on the counter. His jeans are ripped and his shirt is long-sleeved, but Gerard is willing to bet that there are more inked designs under the fabric.

"Hi," a guy who has a mullet-faux-hawk thingy and a fuck-ton of tattoos shouldn't smile like that. It's sweet and eager and kind. Gerard just stares. He sets down his ratty guitar case.

"I'm Frank and um, my friend Spencer? He said I could bring my guitar in...for repairs?"

Gerard wishes he was good at talking to random, attractive people. Frank is now talking to him very s l o w l y, as if he didn't speak English.

"Yeah," he manages. "I'll call Brian."

"Great!" Frank bounces on the balls of his feet, his hands behind his back.

Gerard scuttles out to the back, where Brian is sorting out yesterday's deposits.

"Frank's here," he informs him. Brian straightens up immediately. He looks around at the items on the dusty shelves, and thrusts a portable amp at Gerard.

"Sort that out for me, will ya buddy?"

 

Gerard takes as long as possible writing the deposit details down and lifting the thing onto the shelf. If he's really slow, he'll probably be able to avoid Frank completely. He wishes that he were the deposited amp; safe and secure on a cosy dark shelf, secure in the knowledge that someone,  _somewhere_ wanted him enough to put money down. Soon enough though, he can hear Brian calling him.

Frank is smoking. His board shorts reveal faintly tanned skin and ratty chucks with no socks. Gerard stares determinedly at the shoes, because he knows that the way the man's lips curled around the cigarette, sending toxic, yet pretty fumes twirling and twisting into the air as if they danced, would strike him dumb again.

"This girl is _fucked_ ," says Frank, and it takes a moment for Gerard to realize that he's talking about what used to be a guitar; lying broken on the counter.

It's neck is detached completely , and the body has a fair-sized crack running all the way down the the input. Spencer hadn't been lying when he said that Frank played hard.

Gerard wants to concentrate on this: his job, but it's hard for someone like him to even function when he's being stared at. Brian has handed out beers, and Frank is sipping his slowly, never taking his eyes off Gerard as he holds a conversation about the band he's touring with.

"I always knew Panic had potential," says Brian proudly. "Once I met Spencer and Ryan I knew I had to introduce them to Pete."

"Well, thank fuck you did," smiles Frank. "Without him, they'd still be supporting at bars."

Then, as if he had suddenly remembered that Gerard existed, he turned to him. "So, whaddya think? Is she fixable?"

"I'll try my best," Gerard says to the DVD player just above Frank's unruly, dark head. "I dunno if we have the parts, but if you leave it with me...maybe."

"Do you want me to put it in your room?" Brian asks, and this startles Gerard slightly. Brian was usually telling him to put stuff away, and he never acknowledged the back room as his. When Gerard had first asked to stay there, he'd promised that he'd only use it for a couple weeks. Somehow, the weeks had turned into four months.

He nodded jerkily while musing this over, and Brian disappeared with the ruined guitar. Gerard and Frank were alone together, and the tension was palpable, at least on Gerard's part.

"I thought Brian owned this place," questions Frank, his brow furrowed. "You guys sharing the flat upstairs?"

Gerard thought he detected a trace of something aside from casual curiosity in the man's tone; a glint of some bitter emotion. Of course, he's gone red at the thought of him and Brian, his boss, living together in an implied _relationship_ , and he panics because this could only confirm suspicions.

"You're a bit behind," he laughs in a manner which he hopes is evasive. "We use the flat upstairs to store the big supplies now, like drum pieces."

He doesn't want to tell some guy he'd just met about him and Eliza, so he turns away and tries to close the topic of conversation.

"I live in the back room, for now. It's just till I get back on my feet."

As he says this, he feels the words rot slightly in his mouth, and he isn't fucking surprised. He doesn't know how many times he's told other people, and himself, that his sleeping in the store was " _temporary_ ". It isn't surprising that he's getting tired of talking about it.

 

"Weird name...'Enterprises'..." voices Frank, stubbing out his cigarette in Dewees' ashtray. Gerard feels a rush of gratitude towards the man for changing the topic of their conversation. "Makes it sound, like, _bigger_ , if you don't mind me saying."

Gerard could only gape.

"Are you serious!? I've worked here for nearly two years and I think that every day. It makes me kind of mad." Frank's smooth face breaks into a wide smile, like crinkles and bumps on a crisp, untouched sheet. Gerard wonders if he sounds crazy, obsessing over a stupid store name, but he's relieved that they're no longer talking about him, and he wishes that Brian would hurry back.

"I can think of so many good names for a store like this," the guitarist sighs. "Something like... _Gnarly Guitar Needs_."

"I was all for _Lord Of The Strings_ , personally," says Gerard, and Frank gives a loud, unashamed hoot of laughter. The ball is rolling.

" _Strings And Things_?"

" _Twangs And Thangs_!"

They're laughing so hard that Gerard's holding onto the counter for support. It probably isn't even that funny, but he's beginning to realize how much of the day he spends alone. He hasn't had a good laugh in a long time, and doing this now with Frank-from-Pencey-Prep triggers a wave of relief: almost like a detox.

From the months leading up to his breakup with Eliza to this moment right now, he's been lost in a fog of his own, over-sensitized and probing thoughts. He remembers all the fights and screaming sessions. He hasn't been depressed as such, but everything he does is stale. Every thought and action is tainted and unpleasant like an after taste.

The weight of this emotion hasn't even been noticed: not until now. When he laughs with Frank and rubs at the stitch in his side, he can almost feel the burden of his stress disappear.

Gerard has no idea why he feels all of this with such a sudden surge of intensity. His desperate affection for a person he's known or less than an hour, the giddiness of the joke they shared and the way the cigarette smoke curl around the neck of the slim beer bottle throw him off.

Gerard finds it so easy to do this: Frank is leaning closer and closer and they're still laughing, even though no one's said anything funny. Brian is back too quickly, and even Frank seems surprised by his sudden return, because he dazedly waves goodbye to them both and exits the shop.

If Gerard thought that he'd felt confused about Spencer, it was nothing compared to his feelings for Frank. He recalls, later in the evening as he sweeps the dusty floor under the guitar cases, how the smooth skin on top of Frank's hands contrasted starkly with his roughly calloused fingers.

Thoughts of Pencey-Frank cloud over his brain for the rest of the evening, so that when he tries to add a few more panels to his project just before he goes to bed, he ends up doodling other things instead.

 _A tiny, vicious figure, blurry from movement, guitar slung around his neck_.

Gerard wonders what it'd be like to move from town to town, doing what you truly love along the way.

He'd dreamed of touring in a cramped van for most of his teenage years, and although the sensible voice in his brain had told him to settle down and aim for interning, he'd never forgotten the swell of a bass, the thudding rhythm of a snare drum.

His sketches are dark and grainy, but he likes them. He slips them in between the pages of his well-thumbed _Guitar For Dummies_ manual, and falls asleep quickly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These guys are nice, he thinks as he watches Brendon bang out a drum beat on the glass coffee table. They seem to be the embodiment of everything he fantasized about in the starkly normal setting of the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I leave today for the next week of camp so I thought it'd be nice to leave you guys with a new chapter. I've been told that there won't be wifi, but they'l be new chapter when I get back next week. Also, in this chapter, I cheated a bit. Union Chapel is a real place, but it's in Islington, London instead of New York. The chapter title is from the song Harlem by New Politics. They're like, my favourite band right now! I saw them a few months ago supporting for Fall Out Boy and they blew my mind!

Frank becomes a fixture: permanently hovering in the back of Gerard's mind.

He's ecstatic when his guitar, whom he nicknamed "Pansy", is almost as good as new four days later. Gerard was able to salvage the neck by rubbing down on the frayed, wooden frets with wool wire, and the body sparkles after a new coating of shellac.

"You must be a fucking _awesome_ player," Frank enthuses. Gerard chuckles and helps him haul the instrument back into his case.

"Y'know everyone says that, but at sixteen I was kicked out of a band for being shit at guitar. I sucked then and I suck now."

"No way," Frank is bent over, doing up the zip on the side of he case, but he paused and looks up at Gerard, his mouth slightly ajar. "We all sucked at guitar when we were sixteen. I bet you play great."

"Nah," Gerard loves the admiration in the other man's face. The idea that someone genuinely thinks he's skilled at something pretty much makes his day.

"I mean, I'll play my favorite songs once in a while, but I'd much rather fix a guitar than actually use one."

Frank nods thoughtfully, and spits his sticky wad of gum absently into the trash can.

"You ever thought about being a tech? There's good money to be made doing it."

Gerard thinks about how he use to take on the role of a guitar technician for his brother's first band. The energy of the tiny, sweaty crowd had been momentous, but he knew that if he seriously committed himself to something like that, he'd probably end up falling flat on his face.

It's then, after Frank has finished admiring his good-as-new guitar, that he says something that makes the back of Gerard's neck prickle and his ears flush red.

"You should come down this Saturday. We're staying for an extra week because we've been booked for this great venue. You know Union Chapel?"

Gerard struggles to breathe and nods. He's been to a fair few gigs there himself.

"So you'll come? Look," Frank leaned forward and rapped the counter with his knuckles, demanding the other man's attention.

"I can tell that you're feeling down. Maybe you've been kicked out by your parents, maybe you lost your fancy city job and had to come down here, I don't know. Whatever issues you're ignoring, channel them. Come down on Saturday, there's some people I want you to meet."

With that, Frank stubs his ever-present cigarette out and leaves with a brisk smile. Gerard stands there, amazed. He likes to think that he's fairly friendly, but who did this guy think he was, making assumptions about a person he barely knew?

_Even if the assumptions were basically true._

Still, Gerard experiences prickles of irritation as he's rooted to the spot. He doesn't need Frank's pity; his sympathetic offerings of friendship and stupid smile. Just because he's living in a back room, and not an actual house, doesn't mean that he's a fuck-up. Maybe he _likes_ living like this.

Dewees returns from his lunch break moments later, filling the store with the scent of hot chicken wraps.

"They were doing a discount in that Mexican restaurant down the street and-" he takes in Gerard's expression: how he glowers as he aggressively cleans a recently-bought cassette player with a tooth brush. "What's up, G?"

"Nothing," Gerard mutters. He's desperately trying to shake off the hurt and disappointment. He thought he'd managed to conceal his private life, but Frank could see right through the constant changing of subjects to the person he really was. A loser.

"Nothing at all."

 

Saturday loomed ahead, a complicated burden, a dilemma that he has to solve. Gerard loves figuring out how to fix stuff and he's happy to spend hours getting the curve of a character's arm _just right_ , but the solution to the Frank-fiasco seems tantalizingly out of reach.

One minute, he'll be catching a late lunch with Mikey and will have convinced himself to not go to the stupid concert. The next, he'll be lying on his solitary mattress listening to the scary bumps and groans of the store around him, and he finds himself counting down the days.

He's incapable of doing anything, and it shows. Brian's been getting irritable and Dewees, concerned. Gerard doesn't want to be like this: he doesn't want to go back to being that awkward, chubby high school loser, and he hates Frank for turning him into one.

His portfolio for Cartoon Networks is becoming increasingly ignored. Instead, he spends most nights creating new, spiky ink characters. Boys with torn jeans and frayed, home-made shirts. Brown eyes and lazy smiles adorn his sketch book, and he's seriously considering using all of this material to make a new project.

Brian has made him finish early twice this week, and phone calls from Mikey are growing more frequent.He might as well make some imaginary friends while he's at it, since everyone is convinced that he's losing his mind.

He thinks he's becoming obsessed with someone he's only met twice, and when he guiltily jerks off under the thin covers and in the rare shower, he tries and fails to persuade himself that it isn't Frank's name on his lips.

 

By the time Saturday comes around, he's still in turmoil. The concert is supposed to start at seven thirty, but by quarter to nine he's still pacing his room, inwardly panicking.

He tries to forget that Frank wants him to be in some crowd right now, and starts changing into pajamas. But he knows that, as he attempts to get out his sketchbook from a dusty corner, that he's being stupid.

Suddenly, he's pulling on the clothes nearest to him. He's grabbing his wallet and the store keys and pushing his way out, through he shop and out onto the chilly sidewalk.

Before he can change his mind, he's walking briskly towards the bus stop. Union Chapel, if he recalls correctly, isn't too far away.

 

What used to be an active place of worship, a sanctuary of silence, is now filled with the deafening roar of a crowd and a thudding, jarring bass. Gerard makes his way closer. The converted church appears asleep from the outside, but the cracks of bright light shining through a stained-glass window gives the game away.

Gerard mutters his name to the confused bouncer, because what person turns up to a concert over two hours late? Nevertheless, Frank had indeed put him on the guest list, as promised, and he was able to slip through to the main room.

The whole inside was converted. Indents on the sticky wooden floor showed where pews had once rested and what must have once been an altar had been raised to serve as a small stage. Gerard can see small alcoves periodically placed along the far wall: a place where saint statues must have sheltered. Now, bottles of booze and overflowing red cups inhabited the space.

The lights are blinding, an it's hard to distinguish the shapes of bodies from the odd shadows cast against the wall. Gerard backs up so that he's right at the back of the room, next to the bar. He clambers onto a stool and orders a diet coke.

From this position he can sip his drink and wait for his eyes to adjust. He knows that Frank is one of those blurred figures on the stage, but he can't tell which. It's then, once the dog is over and the lights momentarily dim, that he sees him.

Stood centre stage, head tilted to the ceiling and a mic clutched closely to his mouth, Frank was almost unrecognizable. Pansy is slung low over his hips, and he seems to be drinking in the 'congregation's' enthusiasm.

Gerard is much too fixated on the sharp curve of the front man's jaw to understand the few words he mutters into the mic to the riled-up crowd. They scream back and Frank smirks, because he fucking _owns_ this gig and all the people there. He's got everyone clasped in the sweaty plan of his hand, including Gerard, and he moves with the three other musicians seamlessly; they are one unit, a chaotic and dysfunctional machine.

Gerard feels like he should have listened to Pencey Prep: Frank's voice is rough and fucking _sensual_ , and the low, aggressive guitar sends shivers all the way up his neck.

Maybe he was even later than he had thought, because three songs later Frank's thrown the microphone down and stalked off, followed closely by the bassist, rhythm guitarist and lastly, the scowling drummer.

Gerard wishes he wasn't such a fucking pussy, that he'd arrived at doors and seen Spencer's band as well as Pencey's full set. Were Panic! as aggressive and guttural as their predecessors?

He knows that he'll have to go and talk to Frank. What was it that he had said?

_There's some people I want you to meet._

Gerard slides off his stool and joins the mass of people as they surge out the doors. Most of them hang around outside the chapel, sharing smokes and talking about the gig. Gerard hovers around uncertainly. Frank wanted to see him after, but he didn't say where. He stands awkwardly for nearly ten minutes before retreating round the back to the venue's dusty side door.

 

He's just decided that he'll wait another ten minutes, maximum, before calling it a night when he heard a familiar voice call out his name.

"Dude, I've been looking for you _everywhere_!"

Frank's hair is mussed from sweat, and Gerard can tell by the way he bounces on the balls of his feet that he's high on the post-performance adrenaline.

"I ran late, I guess." Gerard watches Frank fish around in his pockets for a smoke and light up, sucking on the cancer-stick gratefully. He pauses, an extends the pack.

"Ya want one?"

"I've got my own, thanks."

Gerard watches Frank's expression deflate as he remains stationary with his arms crossed in front of him. He wants to stay mad at Frank, for being so stupid and reckless and acting like he could solve all of his problems when he barely knew him. Gerard was probably just a passing fancy for the front man: Frank would string him along to gigs for a week or so, before getting bored and moving on to another, more exotic place with another, more exotic person.

"You remember when I said I wanted you to meet some of my friends?" Frank asks, not noticing Gerard's subtle hostility. "They can get you some stuff, and the pay won't be bad. You can save up and get your own apartment and-"

"What makes you think I _want_ to do all of that shit?" Gerard retorts, his voice now noticeably cool.

Frank starts slightly and his smile fades a little before he throws his arm around Gerard's leather-clad shoulder, and smirks.

"Look, we all reach a...plateau in our lives, you could say. It happens to the best of us. I mean, you're lucky it's happening now: you've got to be like, what, twenty? Stop lying to yourself, Gerard."

Frank talks about how everyone has the urge _to break free and become a new person._ In the near-total darkness of the night, he isn't able to see how Gerard's stiffening up with anger. Fuck this guy, with his stupid tattoos and piercings and vegetarianism and pretentious ramblings. Who does he think he is?

A pang of genuine sadness throbs in his chest. He thinks back to the copious drawings he has of the man in front of him, and how he'd somehow convinced himself into thinking that he was (as fucking cliché as it sounded) different.

But no. Underneath all of Gerard's elaborations, he was just another asshole who let minor fame get to his head and inflate his ego.

He then realizes that Frank has said something that requires and answer, and is staring at him in confusion. He has noticed, for the first time, how the black haired man is glowering at him.

"Gerard...I didn't mean to like, upset you or whatever, in the store," Frank runs his hands through his unruly hair an shifts his gaze to the ground. "I mean, I don't even really know why you're pissed at me, but whatever I did, I'm sorry, 'kay?"

"I don't _need_ your pity," Gerard hisses in an angry rush. He doesn't know why he feels such a sudden flood of irritation at the man in front of him, but he's sick of bottling his feelings up. He ducks out from underneath Frank's lazy arm.

"I don't want to be your new project, or whatever the fuck this is. I'm happy where I am... and I don't need your bullshit ideals."

The shorter man gazes at him, one eyebrow cocked. Gerard thinks he can see the glint of something besides mirrored irritation and surprise: amusement. It's a challenge. Frank opens his mouth to snap back, but the back entrance flies open, startling them both.

A guy dressed in corduroy trousers and a loose, wine-red shirt was coming towards them. His hair was also sweaty and tangled, and under the dull glow of the streetlight, Gerard can see that it's a very, very dark shade of brown.

"Frank, where you been? Hambone's thinkin' that you went home-"

He stopped when he noticed that another figure was standing by Frank, and peered at Gerard through the gloom.

"Um, was I interrupting something?"

"Nah, Brendon." Says Frank. He places his hand in the small of Gerard's back and propels him forward with surprising force. "Let's go inside."

Gerard knew if he wanted to, he could leave all this bullshit. He could punch Frank in the face and run back to the bus stop, back to the store.

Still, to this day, he doesn't know why he didn't do that. Why didn't he leave and go back to his dusty back room? Gerard reckons that it's because of the "challenge" Frank offered and his anger at the pretentious ramblings.

They went through a few grubby corridors and dodged some sticky puddles on the parquet floor. Gerard was about ninety percent certain that Brendon was in that Panic! band. His loose shirt and open-toed slippers gave him away.

"Brendon Urie," he'd said to Gerard, shaking his hand furiously and smiling wide. Gerard had wondered if Brendon was making fun of him, the wide smile and large brown eyes were way too wide and the greeting too enthusiastic, or maybe he was just really high.

The arrive in a shabby dressing room. Gerard can tell that where the various bands now prepare their show used to be the place where altar boys would prepare a mass.

The room is crowded. Gerard immediately spots Spencer, who waves sloppily and grins from the couch. He's next to a bearded man wearing no shoes and smoking something rolled up. At the far end of the couch, a skinny guy with a boyish face is absentmindedly shaking a tambourine.

These guys make a comic contrast against Frank's band, who are all safety pins and eyeliner. There are others too, busy looking guys putting away bass guitars and rolling up leads. Gerard hovers awkwardly for a moment, and then Frank turns to him.

"Guys, this is my friend, Gerard...um," he looks at Gerard expectantly and he realizes that Frank doesn't know his last name.

"Way," he prompts.

"Right! Gerard Way, everybody."

"'That your real name, dude?" asks the bearded guy beside Spencer. "That's a fucking cool name!"

"Nah Jon, his real name's Johnny fuckin' Vegas," a stocky guy with short, spiked-up hair says sarcastically. They all laugh and Frank tells him to take a seat on the sofa, next to bearded-John.

Jon scoots up so that he's practically on Spencer's lap, and Gerard squeezes awkwardly into the couch next to tambourine-boy-man.

"Gerard, you know Brendon, Spencer and Jon. This guy here's Ryan," says Frank cheerfully.

Ryan's eyes are watery and red, and he sways gently from side to side, even though no music is playing.

"Hi Ryan," Gerard says.

"我太他媽的高," he says in reply.

Everyone laughs even louder, and Ryan continues to stare dreamily into the distance.

"Sorry, the whole band are pot-heads," chuckles a guy with the beginnings of a beard and a black beanie pulled low over his ears. He's using his lap to tap out a rhythm with a pair of battered drum sticks, so it's easy for Gerard to assume what he plays in Frank's band. Brendon chucks a pillow his way in retaliation.

"Ryan's learning Cantonese," he protests, slinging an arm around his band mate. "He'd say it if he was sober!"

"Yeah yeah, but that's Mandarin he just spoke," says Spencer mildly, and room erupts.

Introductions are made towards Pencey Prep. Tim (Beanie guy) is the drummer, and the stocky guy with the spiky hair plays bass and is called "Hambone". Shaun is pale and Lanky, and is introduced as the "synth man".

"Gerard's a _genius_ when it comes to guitars," boasts Frank. "He knows 'em inside out."

"That so?" asks Tim. "We could use a genius. Maybe Pete would wanna meet him."

"Maybe," smirks Frank. He accepts a cigarette from Hambone and lights up. "We leave in what, two days?"

"Yup. Not much time left," says John morosely. He rummages around in his shoulder bag and pulls out a bottle of Vodka.

"So let's party!"

Gerard's a fucking lightweight, so he only does a couple shots to appease the others. Then, he sits back with Ryan, who's looking at his spindly hands with fascination, and steadily chain smokes.

These guys are nice, he thinks as he watches Brendon bang out a drum beat on the glass coffee table. They seem to be the embodiment of everything he fantasized about in the starkly normal setting of the store.

It's a good "party". There isn't loud music or ridiculously drunk pricks, just the eight or so musicians and the assistant techs having a good time

.

It goes on for a good two hours, and he vaguely registers the fact that he has work tomorrow, _today_ , as Shaun plays with his hair.

I'm gon' go," he says, standing up unsteadily. There are cries of protest, but he brushes them off, waves goodbye and makes his way to the door.

Frank catches up with him as he struggles with his jacket in the grimy hall.

"I'll call in on you later," he whispers in Gerard's ear.

As soon as he's said those words, he's gone again, back to the bustle of the dressing room. Gerard, remembering how many shots Frank had, shakes the words off and stumbles off towards where he thinks is the bus stop.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If this were to work out, Pencey Prep and Panic would gain vital recognition and their crew, AKA you, would get a good payout. You'd be able to tech for any band you wanted to. Hell, you could start a fucking band and it would probably go well, because I'd owe you one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry for the delay :( if it's any consolation, the chapter is an interesting one. the feedback i'm getting on this story is incredible, and it's really helping me shape what's happening, especially in terms of the characters and whatever. The chapter title is a lyric from the song Somewhere In Neverland by All Time Low

It took much longer to get back from Union Chapel on the bus than Gerard thought.

He fell over twice just climbing up the stairs, and fitting the tiny key in the narrow lock of the store was difficult even without the hindrance of intoxication. He'd had a funny taste in his mouth as he collapsed onto his bed and his eyes were virtually glued together. he'd felt conflicted: he didn't want fucking _Frank_ meddling with his life, but he'd had more fun in the last four hours than he'd otherwise had in months.

He had fallen asleep after several attempts to clear his cluttered mind of all the conflicting thoughts. It seems as if he's only been resting five minutes when the watery sunlight is shining through the blinds and his phone alarm is ringing shrilly.

Gerard flops about on the mattress for a few seconds like a wet fish wearing batman pajamas, before he manages to locate his phone in his jeans pocket.

"'Lo?" He croaks.

"Gee, is that you? God, you sound like _shit_."

"Nice to speak to you too," Gerard grumbled. Mikey Way laughed, his voice sounding vaguely tinny over the store's bad reception. Maybe Gerard was pissed that Mikey had woken him up, but his little brother was also his best friend, and had been ever since he'd been born.

"I'm guessing you've just woken up," Mikey says. Are we still on for ten?"

"Huh?" Said Gerard blearily. He could almost hear Mikey rolling his eyes.

"We're supposed to be meeting for breakfast? You don't remember?"

Gerard felt bad then. Mikey sounded reproachful; hurt even. He hurried to console him.

"No no, I remember. It's just that...I've got work in thirty minutes and-"

"Gerard," Mikey sounded genuinely concerned now. "Its a Sunday. You do know that you have Sundays off, right?"

 

Mikey stirs his coffee and sighs. The stainless steel counters and table tops of the local diner bathes the ceiling in a modest, neutral gray. His older brother, Gerard, is sitting across the diner table from him, wearing a faded olive green, taupe shirt that's so old their grandpa might have been born in it and looking totally exhausted.

"I don't know how you go out every night, Mikes," Gerard mumbles. "I feel like death."

"Yeah well, it's my job."

Mikey has long since accepted the fact that he'll probably always worry about Gerard. He'd been the bossy older sibling when they were kids, but now the roles had kind of reversed.

He can't believe that Frank had coaxed Gerard out (to a concert, nonetheless) when he could barely arrange a meet up at the local diner. Mikey's work as a scout for Angels & Kings Records meant that he knew all about Pencey Prep, and he probably would have tagged along to last night's show too if he hadn't had a fuck ton of emails to go through.

"Are you going to Pencey's gig tonight? it's their last before they head to the West Coast," Mikey smirks and flicks a spitball, his smile growing wider when it hits Gerard right on the nose.

"You should have brought me with you last night, you dick. Pencey are good."

"I bet their support's better, or at least nicer," Gerard says evasively. He takes a huge gulp of coffee and throws his head back."I dunno, Mikes. I'm feeling pretty tired. I was thinking I'd stop sending in those portfolios. It's not as if they ever look at them and-"

"The last company said they'd have a space for a draft in a few months!" Says Mikey indignantly. He knows Gerard too well to buy the "tired" excuse. His older brother had been "tired" all through high school, and even when Eliza dumped him and he'd laid in bed for days; not eating.

"Bullshit, Gee. If you're going to stop doing something you care so much about, then there's something up," he leans across the table and rubs Gerard's hand. "It's okay to be depressed. You can get back on those meds-"

"I'm _not_ depressed," interrupts Gerard. He bites his lip and sighs heavily, his breath making his fringe flutter.

"Okay, maybe I _do_ need to sort my shit out. I get that. But you've gotta trust me on this, Mikes, I need to figure out what I'm gonna do by myself."

Gerard watches Mikey's face, conflicted as he battles his thoughts. His expression is serious, but in the kind of way a little kid is "serious" when he's trying to draw a family portrait in kindergarten class. Some people say that him and his brother are alike, and others assume that they're friends, or worse, _boyfriends_ when they go out together.

 

Gerard wonders if he looks anything like Mikey right now, in the sense that his younger brother manages to pull off earth-brown, skinny corduroy's, a plain tee and a amethyst-coloured jacket without looking like a total poser. Gerard doubts that he managed to be so self-contained and suave when he was twenty one, which surprisingly was only two years ago.

His mom always said that their family was "a little messed up", but half of him believed she'd said this to make him feel better about seeing a school counselor when he was fifteen. If the Way family was wired a little wrong, then Mikey had happily skipped past the fucked up gene in his dumb, calf length leather boots.

Still, he loves him for it. Gerard's enough of a fuck-up to cover for both of them, and he honestly doesn't know what he'd do I he didn't have someone like Mikey to remind him when he has work and make him eat breakfast.

He finishes off his chocolate-chip pancakes and steals bacon from Mikey's plate as his younger brother pretends not to notice and updates him on one of their favorite bands, who incidentally are signed onto the label Mikey works for.

Gerard's slowly relaxing, and he realizes that he's missed Mikey, him and his stupid messy blonde hair that's pushed up into a soft quiff and the loose glasses that slip down his bony nose. He _does_ need to sort his life out, but he doesn't need Frank to do it for him. Maybe if he holds out for a few more months that publishing company will show interest, just like Mikey said.

 

The burden of his life is pressing down hard on his shoulders when he and Mikey tip the friendly waitress and leave the diner. He's planning on going back to the store and doing some more sketching, and Mikey is trying to convince him to come with him to the label office when Gerard stops in his tracks.

Frank is outside the diner, leaning up against the greasy window. He's a greaser from the 1950's, his dyed blond Mohawk stuff from gel and curling down the back of his neck as he brings a cigarette away from his lips and releases the smoke up into the chilly, dull white sky.

Mikey halts too, confused. Gerard stands frozen on the sidewalk, staring at the building they just exited. He wants to run, across the road and away, or into the safety of the dark goodwill store two doors down, but Frank has seen him and is striding over.

"Gerry! Hey!" The fucker is so casual that these two simple words come out as smooth, even with the dumb nickname.

Frank puts out his hand to Mikey, who has realized who he is. They talk about Pencey, throw names around of people they both know and laugh about them while Gerard stands by, bemused and increasingly angry.

Only Frank makes him feel this pissed off. Strolling into the store is one thing, but coming out of nowhere when he's with his fucking _brother_?

The front man is starting to become one of those unwanted spirits that visit on Christmas Eve, minus the holiday season and clanking chains. He's a fucking pest, a sexy pest, but a pest all the same.

"So yeah, I'm a fuckin' stalker, but we're going tonight and Pete wants to meet Gerard before we leave."

Gerard's zoned out for the first minute of the conversation, but the last sentence has pulled him back to reality.

"What...leaving where?" He asks stupidly. Mikey is practically bubbling over with excitement, which is a big deal, considering that the dude perfects a poker-face ninety nine percent of the time.

"Jesus Christ Gerard! This is some serious shit! Didn't you hear what Frank just said?"

"No," snaps Gerard. "I _didn't_ hear what Frank just said. I wasn't hanging on to his every fucking word. To be honest, I don't really care."

Mikey stands, looking between him and Frank in shock. Gerard feels like its last night all over again: Frank's hand is on his back once more, and he's fighting the urge to punch him.

"You'll care once you actually listen," Frank retorts jovially. He's managed to pass Gerard's insults off as a joke, and now Mikey genuinely believes that he wasn't being serious.

"Look Gerard, I've been trying to call you for hours," says Frank with the air of someone about to break important news. "Our guy broke three fingers. We thought he'd be fine to carry on but apparently _he_ thought differently. He went back to his flat in Chicago without a god damned word," Frank ground his teeth, his jaw flexing in a way that made shudders run all the way up Gerard's spine.

"Anyway, Pete broke the news to us this morning. He was gonna get another guy from the agency but I thought of you right away. It was perfect!"

Frank is waving his hands with glee, spilling ash across his jacket. Mikey is nodding his head excitedly and Gerard has no fucking clue what's going on.

"I'm sorry," he says. "But what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Gerard," Frank puts a heavy hand onto his shoulder and pulls him in closer. Despite the fact that the front man was a couple inches shorter than him, he somehow managed to meet his confused gaze eye-to-eye.

"We don't have a guitar tech. We leave tonight. We need a guitar tech. You're a guitar tech."

The grip on Gerard's shoulder was almost unbearable.

"Come with us to L.A. and be my guitar tech."

 

"This is _bullshit_ ," Gerard wails as both Frank and Mikey drag him into a gleaming, expansive building. He's never been to Mikey's work, and he'd never imagined the circumstances in which he did would be anything close to this.

"Just _talk_ to Pete," Frank insists. "You gotta meet him."

"You're being _paid_ to go to California, Gee," says Mikey over his shoulder, his face gleaming with excitement. He keys in his work code and they make their way through the main office, where interns and important-looking guys in suits are on cell phones and typing out word documents.

A few pause their business dialect and watch as the three of them cross the room and into the reception, but Frank is moving too fast to return their greetings.

"Hey Greta," says Mikey cheerfully. "We're here to see Pete real quick."

Greta blushes and picks up her caller phone, presumably so that she can contact this Pete guy Gerard's heard so much about, but the squeak of the glass door beats her to it.

Pete is shorter than he expected, and the colorful sleeve tattoos stand out against the white of his shirt. He's tanned, with eyes that crinkle up as he smiles and dark hair that's short and sticks up in a carefully-styled tuft.

Gerard doesn't want Frank to think he's interested in this guy, so this description is assessed from one quick glance before he watches Mikey greet the founder of Angels & Kings Records.

"And _this_ must be Gerard!" He exclaims after a couple minutes banter with Mikey and Frank.

"Hey," Gerard makes sure that his grip is, in his dad's words, "good and firm" so that Pete knows he means business. Pete smiles and lets go first, throwing an arm around Frank.

"Shall we step into my office?" He makes a theatrical gesture to the glass door and they all troop through. The space is impressive. An Apple Mac resides in the polished desk, and the walls are plastered in signed band posters and platinum record plates.

Gerard and Mikey sit, but Frank moves around the room to look at the concert posters, smiling as he does so.

"So," says Pete. He drums his fingers on the desktop and smiles. "I've heard good things from Frank about you, Gerard. We've had what you could call an emergency, and I've made some calls. You know your shit, and that's all that matters."

He sits back and grins in the way someone does when they sorted out a very difficult problem. Gerard hates to be the one to throw a spanner in the works, but it can't be helped.

"I'm not really interested," he says. "I don't know anything about this company, and I don't even have time to pack or arrange someone to take over my job or-"

But Pete waves his hand dismissively. "It's sorted! I said I made calls. Your boss... Brian? He said you'd make a great tech, and he has another employee who wouldn't mind working more hours for a pay rise. As for packing, you can do that after this meeting, right?"

"Okay," Gerard shifts in his seat. Mikey is bouncing in his chair beside him, nodding excitedly to everything Pete is saying. "Maybe I _could_ pack my stuff and be ready to leave tonight. But that's not really the point," he fidgets with the hem of his jacket. "Maybe I don't want to go and guitar tech for a band I barely know. Maybe I like where I am."

Behind him, Frank snorts and Gerard clenched his fists. This is all that little fucker's fault, acting like he needed to be fixed or whatever the fuck this was.

Pete leans back in his chair, head thoughtfully tilted towards the ceiling.

"Look," he sighs after a few seconds silence. "Pencey have built up a solid following here on the east coast. I want Panic At The Disco to do the same. I wanna expand Angels & Kings, but I need to get fans all over the country first. This isn't an ordinary tour, it's important to the whole company and it could make or break these band's careers."

He leans forward now, locking eyes with Gerard.

"If this were to work out, Pencey Prep and Panic would gain vital recognition and their crew, AKA you, would get a good payout. You'd be able to tech for any band you wanted to. Hell, you could _start_ a fucking band and it would probably go well, because I'd owe you one."

Frank had come forward to stand beside the desk. Gerard looked at his younger brother's excited face, Frank's unreadable expression and Pete's piercing gaze.

This was what he'd dreamed of, all those nights he'd lain in that dusty back room and wished for something else. New Jersey and New York was Eliza, it was dull skies and nine-to-five routines and he did want out. That "someday" had turned into today.

Gerard locked eyes with Pete and gave his final answer.

 

"Just grab everything," he instructs Frank.

They're standing in the back room of the guitar store, with black trash bags and a battered trunk. Gerard's busy packing in art supplies, comics and CD's with care and Frank is in charge of the clothes.

"Do you want your underwear in a different bag?" He asks, brandishing a pair of Gerard's boxers.

"No!" Gerard can feel his face burning as he snatches the pants from Frank and stuffs them in with the rest of the clothes. It's only two in the afternoon, but he's utterly exhausted. His portfolio (including the incriminating sketches) is tucked securely in his travel bag, along with his iPod and cigarettes.

"Just this box, and then all your clothes are done," whoops the shorter man in triumph. "We can get you a big bag for all your shit the first chance we get."

"Okay," replies Gerard numbly. He's called his mom and dad, talked to Brian and sent a text to Eliza, but still, none of this feels real. The place he's called home for the last few months is now bare, with his mattress stacked up against the wall and the floor littered with his bags.

Frank has arranged the luggage so that it's by the door, ready to be carried out to the awaiting van. He stands in the middle of the room, facing Gerard. His whole face is lit up with a boyish excitement and he's bouncing on the soles of his shoes.

"We can go down to Angels & Kings and meet the rest of the crew. The van will pick all of us up from there at like," he checks the time on his phone. "Seven."

So Gerard leaves. He walks out of his room and out through the store, waving bye to Dewees and Brian along the way. He follows Frank out onto the sidewalk and to his beat-up car, where they'll go back to Angels & Kings and meet the people he's going to he living and working with for the next twelve weeks.

Gerard Way is twenty three and he has no fucking clue as to what's going on with his life.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank is contemplative, spiritual, soul-searching, intuitive, mysterious and enchanting. His Adam's apple strains and the veins in his neck stand out in a crazily delicate way as Gerard stands side stage and is suddenly overcome with a rush of emotion. It isn't a "holy crap I think we're in love" kind of feeling, but at that moment he wants to be with Frank: to feel him and find out how a simple grotty gig can make him look so peaceful inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I'm a horrible person who hasn't updated in like, years. I've been pretty sick, though, but i'm slowly recovering. Anyway, comments and kudos are always much appreciated and the chapter title is a song by this amazing band I just came across called The Datsuns... check them out!!

Ray Toro has a huge smile just like Brendon Urie's and, coupled with the bouncy movements and frizzy hair, to Gerard he resembles a cartoon character.

They're on stage at Terminal 5, a large warehouse with a sticky floor and grubby walls. Ray's the head guitar tech, and his knowledge, as well as his actual playing skills, is seriously freaking him out right now.

"It's simple," says Ray, fiddling with a tangle of leads and plugging them into the nearest head. "I'll be doing the actual "tech-ing", you stay side stage and hand me all the shit when I ask, 'kay?"

Gerard nods mutely, feeling a little overwhelmed. It's been such a long time since he's been on this side of a gig, and not in the crowd as a spectator. "But, for the other nights...I'll be doing the same things?" He asks.

"No way!" laughs Ray. "You just said you haven't tech'd in a year or whatever, so you might be rusty and I don't wanna take any chances. No offence," he adds as an afterthought.

"None taken," replies Gerard, feeling massively relieved. "Where do you want these stands?"

He feels pretty confident that everything is gonna turn out okay after all; he gets to see fucking _L.A_ and see some cool bands along the way. He doesn't even need to talk to Frank if he doesn't want to.

He's laughing with Ray (who actually grew up two streets away from him, but went to the local Catholic School) about New Jersey's local comic explosion when Frank emerges minutes later from his dressing room with Hambone and makes him feel angry all over again.

The lighting crew is flicking out their testers and Frank is moving the might stand and front amp to stage left, just the way he likes it. Gerard watches, chewing on a thumbnail.

Dark purple lights from the lighting booth make him look strangely meditative, as if the front man is about to lead a prayer instead of start a sound check. Frank's head is tilted upwards, and the deep violet and electric blue lights dull and contrast against each other, so that whenever he turns his head slightly to the left Gerard can see his jaw line, perfectly silhouetted against the other side of Frank's face which is cast in shadow. Frank is contemplative, spiritual, soul-searching, intuitive, mysterious and enchanting. His Adam's apple strains and the veins in his neck stand out in a crazily delicate way as Gerard stands side stage and is suddenly overcome with a rush of emotion. It isn't a _"holy crap I think we're in love"_ kind of feeling, but at that moment he wants to be with Frank: to feel him and find out how a simple grotty gig can make him look so peaceful inside.

 

Gerard's had doubts about taking this job, but by the time the concert's underway and Panic! At The Disco are playing their short opening set, he can't help thinking that just being able to see them live for free is worth it.

It's bizarre, how different the psychedelic, Beatles-style melodies are to Pencey's stripped down pop punk. Their microphone stands are decorated with fucking _flowers_ , and there are more of them tucked into Brendon and Ryan's headbands. He's always loved this kind of shit, and so he's paying full attention when the front man steps up to the mic.

"Hey guys!" Brendon smiles, jumping about and waving his arms around his heads like one of those weird wind signal things as Ryan rocks nervously in the balls of his feet. "We're, uh, Panic At The Disco and, um, we're gonna play some songs from our album which is coming out in October."

Gerard almost bursts out laughing at the faces of the people in the audience. Mohawks and ripped shirts seem to be the theme in the crowd, and now they're presented with a song which, according to Brendon, "is all about getting high!"

"The minute this thing's over we're heading to California," he continues. "So if you've got any friends over there, tell 'em to come by and say hey!"

There's no doubt that they're good though. Brendon's voice is incredible, and Ryan's spindly fingers drift across the frets easily, though he doesn't seem to have much stage presence. Gerard applauds enthusiastically when the final song is over, along with the ten or so people that haven't moved away to the bar.

That ten is instantly replaced with another three hundred once Pencey storms on stage and, without greeting, launches into their first song. Gerard watches idly, trying to keep his eyes on Ray and not Frank as John's guitar is given a stronger strap and plectrums are stuck into the side of the microphone stand.

"All right fuckers," Frank says cheerfully once the rough chords begin to fade. "This next one's about love." The few catcalls were drowned out by the enthusiastic whoops of the fans. Pete hadn't been lying when he'd said Pencey'd built a solid following in Jersey.

Frank is on fire, and Gerard knows he should be watching Ray fix them up with picks and re-tune E strings, or at least the other band members, but he can't. He knows what he's doing, and a few simple guitar jobs doesn't require that much concentration.

The next few songs go smoothly: after the acoustic _Lloyd Dobbler_ they launch into a cover of _Teenage Kicks_ by The Undertones, and Frank throws himself into the swirling crowd, disappearing among the teenagers and tough-looking punks. Ray is laughing, (apparently he's known Frank for years) and the crowd is loving it.

The song ends, Frank scrambles back on stage and Bob signals a change over. Gerard moves out of the way, but Ray pushes him forward instead.

"You do it, you'll be fine."

Gerard shrugs and grabs the second bass guitar, which is chunky and heavier than the one Hambone has now.

Frank keeps the mass of people amused with some strange anecdote about his cousin's dog as Gerard moves carefully past John and over to Hambone. He takes the other guitar, plugs him in and makes to get off stage.

He would have done exactly that, if a hand hadn't grabbed him by his belt loop and pulled him into their chest.

Frank's grip is like iron, and from an angle so close Gerard can see the beads of sweat dripping from his hair and the manic gleam in his eye. People are cheering, the rest of the band are playing an intro, and Frank is kissing him.

It's hard and rough and kind of painful, but somehow, by knowing that escape would be impossible in such a tight hold, Gerard's half hard. The whole time Frank's lips bruise his and his rough tongue grates his molars, Gerard's aware that a crowd is watching. He's bright red, but all of his limbs have gone limp with shock.

He has no idea how long the kiss lasts, not because some cheesy thing happened where time slows down, but because the intro is an extended one and the rest of the band is playing it out and looping it so that Frank can have his fun.

He nearly stumbles and falls flat on his ass when Frank abruptly pulls back and pushes him from him forcefully. Gerard stumbles back stage: breathless, angry and really fucking turned on.

 

Backstage everyone's laughing, but not in a mean way; there are high fives and Ray messes up his hair affectionately. By the time Pencey's set is finished and the lights have gone down, Gerard's came to the conclusion that Frank must do this to every new crew member. He rushes over to Panic's dressing room, finding refuge in Brendon's friendly smile and cheap beer.

"I didn't know you and Frank were, like, dating," says Ryan. The whole band are alert, and this time they clearly aren't high. Gerard can't believe Ryan even remembers meeting him, and for a few seconds he just stares at the guy.

"I mean," Ryan continues. "Usually, when Frank hooks up with someone he doesn't shut up; he never mentioned you 'til like last night."

"Frank, we're... _what_?" splutters Gerard.

Jon is laughing in the background and now the whole room is heavy with second hand embarrassment on Gerard's part. On the other side of the thin wall, Gerard can hear Pencey arrive in their adjacent dressing room: joking noisily. Everyone is watching him, and a peculiar sensation pools at the bottom of his stomach when he realizes that Ryan thought he and Frank were together.

"I've just broken up with my girlfriend," Gerard says hollowly. "I'd never... Frank isn't my type."

He immediately feels bad, because judging by his dick, Frank certainly is his type. What's more is that the whole room looks a little uncomfortable.

"Um, okay," says Ryan slowly. "I didn't mean to like, offend you or whatever."

Gerard mumbles some half-assed excuse and grabs the nearest thing, which turns out to be a little amp. He leaves Ryan looking perplexed and Ray very worried and makes his way down back to the main concert area and out the back to where the van is parked.

Maybe if he runs fast enough, he'll trip over his own feet and smash his face into the ground so hard that his nose cartilage will embed itself into his brain and kill him instantly.

"Gerard!"

If anything could make the situation right now worse, it would be this one man. Frank's sweaty and the dull light of the clouded-over moon casts a dull sheen over his face. He's grabbed him in a one-armed hug and, as the jean-material of Gerard's crotch knocks against Frank's thigh, he has to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning.

"I was looking for you," Frank's grip is tight once more, but Gerard no longer wants to play his fucked up, stupid game.

"Get _off_ of me," he growls, and the force in which he pushes Frank from him surprised even himself.

The shorter man stumbles, regains his balance, and tilts his head so that his eyes glint.

"Why are you so fucking angry all the time?" He hisses. "Wallowing around 'cause your girlfriend dumped you or whatever, and now this? I'm just trying to fuckin' help!"

"Help?" laughs Gerard incredulously. " _Help_? You wanna know how you can help? Just," he moved forward again, jabbing Frank in the chest with each word.

"Leave. Me. The. Fuck. _Alone_."

If there was one thing Gerard could have right now, it'd be the satisfaction of seeing Frank angry. He watches, breathing heavily, as the Pencey front man steps back, pauses, and chuckles softly.

"Whatever. You wanna just stew over something that happened nearly half a year ago? Be my guest."

Frank shrugs his jacket, which Gerard had manage to dislodge, back into his shoulders and gives him one, last pitying look.

"Maybe you'll wanna go help pack up the van, we leave in like an hour."

Gerard tries to shake it off as he, Ray and Bob load up all the equipment, and then the bands bags, into the tiny van.

Frank seemed to have gotten the message, at last. Now he'll be able to do this job without being hassled and then he'd go home and buy a nice apartment with the money. There'd be beer and partying, but he wouldn't have to talk to Frank.

On the other hand, it's a long, long way to California.

And a pretty fucking small van.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank is sitting in the booth directly behind them, and keeps leaning over to mutter something in Jon's ear: the something must be very funny because Jon keeps laughing and, for some reason, it's pissing Gerard off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm on a role here! I liked writing this chapter, because something important actually happens. The title is a lyric from the song "Dear Maria" by All Time Low

When Gerard wakes up, he automatically reaches out to bash his alarm clock quiet. His fingers grope the air uselessly, and it takes him a few, long seconds to remember where he is.

Not in a guitar store in the outskirts of Manhattan. A van. Somewhere.

The quiet beeping is from someone's cell phone: now Gerard is able to place the signature, iPhone sound. His eyes are glued together with sleep, but underneath him he feels the vibrations of an active engine. The car hits a bump in the road, and he's jogged onto his other side.

Yep, they're definitely moving.

Something rustles to his right, and he sees Bob's right hand, unlocking his phone and shutting off the alarm. That simple action brings back all of the memories of last night.

He'd had a fight with Frank.

He'd _kissed_ Frank.

He'd helped load up the van, Brendon had given him a sleeping bag and he'd bedded down for the night in the back. Ray was snoring softly beside him, and what looked like the back of Shaun's head poked over the edge of the front seat as he drove.

Someone else was lying across his knees, and there were huddled figures blocked by Bob, who was now leaning on his elbows; tiredly going through his phone. Gerard was reminded of The Tardis: the van was fucking tiny from the outside, but what looked like all the members of Pencey Prep, Panic At The Disco and all the techs fit inside it.

Bob banged against the front seats tiredly, and the vehicle drew to a halt. Gerard sat up as it jerked, and the sound engineer smiled at him.

"Morning."

"Where are we?" Gerard moaned in reply. Bob sighed and scratched his head.

"Um, somewhere in Ohio maybe?"

"Fuck."

"Yeah, Shaun and Frank've been driving all night, I think."

Frank. Gerard's stomach twisted nervously. As much as the guy had promised to stay away from him, there is only so much of that you can do if you're all living in one tiny van.

The door flies open and there he is. Gerard knows that if he spent four hours driving in the dead of the night he'd never manage to look that good. Frank's hair is standing on end, due to the fact that he still hasn't washed out the gel from last night's show. The sun is actually shining, and it casts him in a silhouette, rays coming out from behind his back like he's a fucking _angel_ or some shit.

"Rise and shine, ladies," he drawls. Somewhere within the the depths of the bus, Brendon moans.

"Bob, if you take over the driving, I'll rest in the back. The next food stop is like ten miles."

Gerard sighs and scoots over, closer to Brendon as Frank crawls in and settles between the two of them.

"Phew," he sighs. "I'm beat. Wake me up when we get something to eat, yeah?"

"Sure thing," chirps Brendon. Gerard notices that his left arm is slung righty around Ryan's waist. He's fast asleep, but Brendon has pulled him in close so that they're spooning.

"Ryan's not a touchy-feely person," explains Brendon, following Gerard's gaze to the sleeping guitarist. "He'd never let me do this if he was awake."

"So you just get him while he's sleeping; while he's weak and vulnerable?"

They both crack up laughing and Bob turns up whatever CD is playing louder.

"I don't think the crowd were too keen on us last night," confesses Brendon.

"Well," says Gerard reasonably. "I mean, you're not really playing to the right group of people." He bites down on his lip.

"I've been wondering...why are you even touring with Pencey? I mean you guys' sounds are totally different, it doesn't really make sense."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," replies Brendon. Ryan gives a sleepy moan and presses his face into Brendon's shoulder. He rubs his hair fondly before continuing.

"I know I'm the singer and all, but Ryan's kind of the real front man. He's the one who decides all the stuff with Pete, and got him to arrange this tour. There weren't any other bands like us on Pete's label, so he thought it was better to play to any group of people rather than no one at all. Besides, he said that he wanted to make a splash on the West Coast, and Pencey fans will certainly remember us, right?"

Gerard nods, still a little confused. He guesses that it makes sense, but it's certainly risky. Pete is officially insane.

He looks at Brendon closely for the first time. There's a smear of acne spanning across his forehead, and his nails are bitten down to stubs.

"How old are you?" He asks.

Brendon looks slightly perturbed, but sighs and answers.

"Seventeen an' a half."

"Fuck!"

"Gerard stares at the boy and they bounce over a pothole. Seriously, has Ohio ever even heard of roads?

Frank rolls over drowsily, so that his ass rubs up against Gerard's crotch and, shit, the last thing he needs right now is a hard-on when he's talking to an underage kid.

"But," he tries to rub his erection back down under his blanket, but Frank just pushes down on him further. "Shouldn't you... be in school? Like, are your parents okay with this?"

"Me and my mom and dad don't talk," says Brendon. He looks preoccupied for a few seconds, staring at his hands sadly.

"I'm sorry," says Gerard softly. "I didn't mean to bring up anything."

"Huh? No way!" Brendon's smile is firmly back in place. "I'm the youngest, Ryan's the oldest. He's nineteen."

From the other side of Gerard, he hears Frank giggle. He's uncomfortably hard, and the rocking motion of the van allows Frank to rub his butt against him under their blanket while Brendon talks on, oblivious to what's happening.

"I thought that you were like, around my age though," he frowns. "How old are you?"

"Me? Um, twenty three."

"See? We're basically the same age!"

"Six years is a big difference," Gerard say sagely, and Brendon just rolls his eyes and bashes him on the head with a pillow.

This friction in Gerard's pajama pants is unbearable. He's going to fucking murder Frank.

 

 

The diner isn't anything special, but they serve pancakes and Gerard hasn't eaten since before last night's gig. Brendon slides out from his position against Ryan just before he wakes up and throws Gerard a wink.

He sits with Panic and gratefully answers all the questions they ask him. He says "gratefully" because even though he's wearing his baggiest hoodie, he isn't totally sure that his dick has gone down and he needs a distraction.

Frank is sitting in the booth directly behind them, and keeps leaning over to mutter something in Jon's ear: the something must be very funny because Jon keeps laughing and, for some reason, it's pissing Gerard off.

_You're jealous._

Oh fuck. No, he is not jealous. He can't be jealous.

Frank's surrounded by Pencey, Ray and Bob, and everyone keeps leaning over to talk to each other.

Hambone knocks Frank's elbow when he makes to ask Spencer something, and some of the coffee he's drinking runs down his chin and onto his wrist. Gerard sees him roll his eyes, and then suddenly look over, right at him.

Gerard blushes, but he doesn't want Frank to think he was staring at him beforehand, so he maintains eye-contact. Frank does the same. He grins at Gerard and begins to lick the spilled drink off his hand, still staring at him.

Gerard narrows his eyes, and his dick twitches. The two men continue to look at each other. Frank keeps his eyes glued to Gerard and sucks at his knuckles provocatively. How old is this guy? Thinks Gerard. It's like high school all over again.

The worst thing is that he's falling for it.

When everyone finishes their food they all sit around drinking coffee: reluctant to start driving again. Gerard can't stand sitting here anymore, determinedly looking away from one person in particular and feeling hot and bothered down below.

"Where's the bathroom?" He asks the waitress.

She smiles because he gave her a good tip a few minutes ago and directs him out the door and round the back, beside the gas pumps.

What kind of restaurant doesn't have indoor bathrooms? Until now Gerard had been pretty sure that the only people who used outhouses were Amish. He guesses that he's mistaken, but it doesn't really matter. At least he doesn't have to worry about some random dude in the next cubicle hearing him jerk off.

He pulls the wooden door open and steps inside. The lock is too stiff for him to move, and a spider squats over his head. Gerard sighs, but he closes his eyes and unzips his fly. He doesn't give a fuck if there are a hundred spiders, he needs to get off.

He moans at the contact; his cold hand slides over his hot flesh and sends shivers down his thighs. All reasonable thoughts of 'hurry up and get back' are replaced by the desire to prolong this, to enjoy it.

He's rock hard and panting, sweat is beading on his forehead and he feels like his dick is gonna explode. He's so close, he can feel himself tipping over the edge...

"Need help?"

Gerard's pretty sure he's having a heart attack. He spins around, attempting to cover his crotch at the same time, and his jaw drops.

Frank has slipped in and closed the door behind him. He's leaning against it, his arms folded and a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Frank?" Gerard gasps stupidly. He tries to turn around and hide himself in the narrow outhouse, but Frank is quicker. Gerard yelps as his shoulders are grabbed and he's pulled into Frank's chest, their lips colliding with such force that there'll probably be bruises later.

Gerard's reminded of last night, when Frank kissed him on stage. The tight grip and wandering hands are the same, but he's moaning a lot more: loud and obscene.

"I know you wanted me to follow you," Frank whispers harshly against Gerard's ear. His dick had lost some of the excitement in the shock of being walked in on, but the sensation of strange hands (Frank's hands, he thinks dimly) has already got him half hard once more.

"Bet you do this all the time," Frank's voice is different, and Gerard and see his eyes, growing darker and darker with list as he continues to pump him, agonisingly slowly.

"Bet you let anyone do this, you knew exactly what to do, didn't you?"

Gerard gasps, tries to deny it, but he's lost the ability to speak English and his voice is reduced to some obscene, porn-star moans.

He hears the distant sound of another zipper being undone, and he knows that Frank is jacking himself self of at the same time. He's pushes into the wall, so that his back is to the other man and Frank has one hand curled around his middle and onto his throbbing dick, the other hand pumping his own length.

"Gonna come," Gerard makes a sound that's somewhere between a whine and a moan, and he rubs his ass against Frank's crotch and busy hand, desperate for some release; or at least a bit of friction.

"Not yet," Frank growls up against his neck, and he bites his ear. Gerard ruts his body harder against Frank's, and they rock in sync together, until Gerard feels the other man's rhythm stutter, ad he knows that he too is on edge.

"Fuck," yells Frank. He tightens his grips on Gerard's dick, an they come simultaneously, hard and fast and all over Frank's hands and their thighs.

Gerard's knees go weak from the orgasm, and he slides against the wall to the ground, weakly fumbling for the Kleenexes he saw to wipe himself off. He finds them, but the creak of the door makes him stop what he's doing and look up.

"Don't take too long," smirks Frank. "We'll be leaving any minute."

Then he's gone as suddenly as he appeared, leaving Gerard fucked-out and messy on the floor, gaping at the door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard wonders how trapped the younger man had felt when he wrote it, and he realizes that he and Ryan aren't all that different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short update, I'm afraid, but I'm really happy with this chapter (especially the atmosphere). The chapter title is the song "That Green Gentleman" by Panic At The Disco.

After the "Outhouse Incident", Gerard changes his perspective on Frank.

He doesn't even know at what point he started liking guys again. Gerard has spent a good half of his life wishing that he was either exclusively straight or exclusively gay. Liking a girls soft lips one minute and a boys strong hands the next was confusing as fuck.

His infatuation with Eliza had been instant: they'd talked, they'd had a couple of drinks and then they'd gone back to his place. She'd straddled him on the couch and Gerard, who'd had little to no experience with sex at the time, had let her call the shots.

Then there had been months of Friday nights, of lazy Sunday mornings and painting his apartment walls yellow. He'd been happy, and it had all started with that _look._

He'd experienced the same, instant click when he'd met Frank. It hadn't mattered that Frank was a dude with a dick, Gerard had connected with him and that was that.

The guy is a maniac; a sexy maniac, but a maniac all the same.

However, he's spent over three years being normal, so maybe a maniac is just what he needs.

 

When he returns to the diner, Bob is settling the bill and the other guys are already in the van, Jon impatiently honking the horn all the while.

"Oh good, you're back," he says once he spots Gerard. "Frank said you felt sick."

"Yeah," Gerard tries not to hide his hands in his pockets or duck his head.

"I'm feeling much better now, though."

.

The next few days pass quickly. They slowly inch, state by state, closer to California.

Everyone groans when Brendon volunteers to drive, because he's only recently got his license and he acts (as Hambone eloquently puts it) "as if this is all fuckin' _Mario Kart._ "

Frank always makes a point of sleeping next to him in the van. Gerard goes to bed before everyone else out of the "sleeping-early-waking-up-early" habit he formed at the store, so while Panic are throwing water bombs at each other on the side of a highway, or when Pencey have managed to make a fire and are seeing if potato chips are flammable, Gerard is huddled under seven blankets.

He'll be drowsy, on the brink of sleep when he hears the van doors unlatch and the vehicle itself dips slightly under another person's weight.

Then, Frank's arms will wrap around his middle and a hot breath will tickle the back of his neck. Despite the fact that he is slipping away and barely conscious, Gerard knows that it's Frank; just by the rhythm of his chest against his back.

Gerard's several inches taller than the guy, but Frank has a fixation with being the big spoon, and after months of being the "masculine one" for Eliza, Gerard's more than happy to go with it.

He doesn't even know what they have right now. He hasn't seen Frank mess about with anyone else, but it's likely that their kisses and spooning could all just be a game to him.

Gerard can't help but laugh when he thinks about how he's been on the road for two nights now: it feels like two years. The Gerard in Manhattan wouldn't ever have been so casual; he'd have had wanted validation and security to make up for the lack of it in other aspects of his life.

 

They've been driving for three days now. Shaun has given up trying to make people drive night shifts, so they park at dusk and set off again at the crack of dawn instead.

At one point, Spencer got signal on his cell phone and told them that it should only take one day and sixteen hours to get to Los Angeles from Manhattan. Everyone else was confused, but then they all remembered that their bus had already broken down twice and was likely to break down again.

For each of these times they'd spent hours sitting by the side of some freeway, waiting for Pete to send a repair guy from the nearest AA station.

The tension and excitement grew tangible as they neared their destination. That evening John parks the van near a gas station and everyone takes the opportunity to stock up on sugary snacks. Gerard is eating his favorite potato chips when Frank jogs towards them, carrying what looks like a small white bucket, a bucket with a label wrapped around it that he can't read.

"Did you get my _Nerds_?" asks Hambone, but Frank continues right past him, over to the van. He pulls the lid off the can and throws the contents over the bus.

Gerard gasps as their ride is splattered with pastel blue paint, some of it spraying onto Frank's hair.

"It's a new start," he announces. Frank's eyes are wild, and the balmy breeze is lifting the ends of his hair up, before playfully setting them down again.

Soon Brendon returns with more cans of paint, and they're chucking the viscous liquid around with reckless abandon. The artist in Gerard suddenly surfaces, and he finds himself being careful yet carefree at the same time, flicking paint at Ryan if he comes too close and using his hands to get the still-white sides of the van covered.

Before, the bus had been completely ordinary. It had gotten them from A to B, only occasionally breaking down. It had had wooden panels and peeling white paint and it had taken Gerard away from all the security and normality that he'd ever known.

The van had been tired and faceless, but, as they all stepped back to admire their handiwork, Gerard feels like everything has been reborn. Even though they're all covered in paint, it feels like a clean slate.

Frank looks good with soft green and blue flecks clinging to his hair. He looks over at Gerard and laughs, and Gerard knows that he must be absolutely covered in the stuff, as he'd let Jon "practice" on him before he'd attempted to paint the van.

Franks hands are an orange-yellow, and they smear their colors all over Gerard's jaw, his cheek, his face as they kiss. The hands move to run through his hair, and Gerard wraps his arms around Frank's middle, pulling him in closer.

Distantly, he can hear the others cheering and Bob and Ray's exclamations of surprise as they return from the gas station bathrooms to find the van completely reinvented. Gerard registers these things, but they fly straight through his mind in a garbled form, like a dream.

All that he can hold on to is right here. The smell of paint from Frank's hair and hands and nose is overpowering, and he can taste the hot warmth of the other man's tongue.

They break the kiss a few seconds later to gasp for air, and Bob immediately pounces and makes Frank try to jump start the car. He sighs dramatically and squeezes Gerard's wrist.

"Come find me when you can, 'kay?" The smile causes crinkles to form around Frank's eyes, and Gerard knows that when the man is much, much older he'll be covered in laughter lines, and he'll look even better from it.

He nods wordlessly, hoping that Frank gets how he feels. He's exonerated, liberated. The happiness is sudden and dizzying and he has to fight the urge to jump up and down. Frank can sense this. Gerard knows Frank feels the same, because he lets out a happy hoot of laughter and kisses Gerard messily on the cheek before running off to work on their ride.

He stared at his retreating figure for several long seconds, before turning back to where the others are gathered.

.

Ryan gives Gerard a wide smile, and he immediately wants to talk to him. Besides the few words they'd exchanged back in the Union Chapel dressing room, they'd had little to no interaction.

"It's cool, isn't it?" he gestures towards the brightly colored bus.

"Things have changed," Ryan replies simply. "Everything has to have a new beginning, I guess."

He begins to hum a song, the lyrics carrying on the light wind and swirling out towards the open road.

_I wanna go where everyone goes I wanna know what everyone knows I wanna go where everyone feels the same I never thought I'd leave the city I never thought I'd leave this town..._

Ryan carries on, his voice breaking occasionally but managing to maintain the tune. Gerard now recognizes the song, it's one of Panic's; one that Ryan must have written himself. Gerard wonders how trapped the younger man had felt when he wrote it, and he realizes that he and Ryan aren't all that different.

Brendon takes over the singing as he comes up behind them and throws his arms over both their shoulders. His voice, much stronger and more confident, soars up into the bright blue sky and blinding sun.

Soon, the last note fades and the song is finished. Ryan (who "isn't a touchy-feely person") is clinging on to Brendon, and the younger boy's dark hair contrasts starkly with Ryan's sandy brown head as they head off to the van together.

This leaves Gerard standing alone, but he really doesn't feel it. He feels more connected and in control of his life than ever before.

"Yo Gerard! You coming?" Spencer yells playfully. They're all getting ready to leave.

"'course!" he calls back.

He sprints toward the bus, hoping that he can still grab a seat beside Frank.

They're on the verge of arriving in L.A, the climate is hot and he'd rather die than be left behind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He doesn't know shit," the blond man mutters angrily. "All he cares about is making money off of this tour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter a lot, and I thought that bringing a "villain" over from the Panic fandom would be interesting. The chapter title is a lyric from the song "For What It's Worth" by Buffalo Springfield.

It's Frank who wakes Gerard up from his nap to tell them they've arrived. He wonders blearily how long he's been sleeping, but all thought of fatigue vanishes when the shorter man grabs his hand tightly.

"Look," Frank mumbles.

The dusky evening makes the sun look as if it's dipping onto earth; it's so low on the sky. Gerard watches it peep between buildings, blinding him for a few seconds until the next house comes along and blocks it from view.

Gerard hadn't realised how much he'd romanticised California in his head. The city of stardom and fame has houses and trees and cars, just like any other town. He doesn't know what to think.

"There it is!" yells John gleefully. 

They're all wide awake and excited, high on the prospect of not travelling any longer. Gerard tries to smile with them, but the sinking gloom of disappointment is oppressive. What had he expected? Maybe L.A would be just like New York: apparently glamorous but soulless for those who had to live there 24/7.

Then, he turns his head to see what John has pointed out.

The mountains are huge and high; rolling green and burnt orange from the constant heat exposure. Sitting firmly on the biggest mountain were the famous nine, white letters.

Hollywood.

"It's gonna be beautiful," Frank says happily. He's still gripping his hand, and Gerard is suddenly aware of how warm and natural it seems to be holding it.

"Victory drink! We made it, baby!" Hoots Hambone. 

He pulls out a few eight-packs of beers and chucks a couple at them.

Frank cracks it opens and chugs it down immediately, some of the liquid dribbling down his chin. Gerard is much more reserved, and he catches Frank smiling at him as he sips.

"What?" He asks, lifting an eyebrow.

"Nothing," says Frank, still smiling. "I'm just glad you came."

"What the hell?"

Patrick Stump has just gotten off the phone with an angry client, and he really doesn't need this. Ray had called ahead to say they'd be at the hotel by six in the evening, and they were already over an hour late.

Now, as he hovered on the sidewalk and watched a van that looked like it'd been massacred on Rainbow-fucking-Road, things had just gotten worse.

"No wonder you're all a day late!" He exclaims after quickly hugging Ryan and Brendon. "I specifically told Pete to get a new bus! I even emailed him a reminder last week!"

"Chill, Pat," smiles Frank. "You can yell at him later; we're here now and that's all that matters."

Patrick is a little on the short side and comfortably round, his t-shirt, jeans and bomber jacket all fitting snugly. His glasses are slipping down his nose slightly as he bobs his blonde, cap-clad head earnestly. Gerard also has to admire the sideburns: he'd had some of his own back in collage.

"Okay," sighs Patrick. "The hotel is literally a block away, I'll walk you guys to it once we're done eating."

"We're eating out? Fuck yeah!" Brendon jumps up and down on the sidewalk like the little kid he is.

"Courtesy of Management," Patrick grins. "C'mon."

The restaurant is classy but not intimidating, on the corner of a busy street, surrounded by expensive-looking stores.

They're guided to a reserved table and Spencer makes grabby hands at the bread basket until Shaun takes pity and pushes it towards him. Brendon is talking to Ryan as usual, one hand on his arm. Gerard is just wondering how close the two boys really are when the waiter commands their attention.

"Um," Frank skims the leather-bound menu. "What's the most expensive thing here?"

Patrick rolls his eyes but laughs along with every one else. The waiter leaves, and that's when Gerard notices the empty chair directly opposite him.

"Who isn't here?" He asks, nodding towards the space.

"Oh," says Patrick, and for a second, it looks as if his expression darkens as he surveys the empty chair. 

"We got this new tour manager. One of the conditions the venues let us play in L.A was that we take him, too."

"Have you met him?" Asks Frank.

"Yeah," says Patrick shortly. He doesn't seem keen to continue the conversation, so he hurriedly changes the subject.

"Hey look, our food's coming."

While they eat, drink and laugh Frank goes back to his favourite game: "lets see how hard I can get Gerard." His hand ghosts up his thigh, settling near his crotch and squeezing. Gerard tries to squirm away, but Frank playfully hooks their legs together, so he's stuck.

The torture lasts all of twenty minutes, until they both simultaneously stand up to go to the bathroom.

"Whatever," laughs Hambone. "Have fun."

The embarrassment is basically worth it, because the stalls are wide and spacious, big enough for the two of them to slip in.

Gerard does the lock. 

"We need to be qui-" he begins, but Frank shuts him up with a rough kiss, biting down on his bottom lip hard and making him whimper in surprise. 

It's just like the last time they were together, Frank is no longer goofy and childish; his hands are yanking in Gerard's hair, hard as they kiss and Gerard ruts desperately against him. He can feel the friction in his jeans growing, and he dimly hears Frank fumble with his own zipper.

"C'mon," Frank growls as the zipper catches on his pants and stays resolutely stuck. It's these awkward things that make it even fucking hotter, in Gerard's opinion. It's all so rough and wild, so unplanned.

They finally get Frank's jeans open, and Gerard moans at the sight of his hard cock and palms himself.

Frank's fingers are still tangled in Gerard's hair, reminding him of who's in charge. He gets to work, taking Frank's whole length in his mouth and sucking hungrily.

"Oh fuck yeah," mumbles Frank. "Just like that."

He's thrusting into his mouth, setting a pace so fast that Gerard can barely breathe and tears are streaming down his cheeks. The anticipation of what's surely going to follow and the knowledge that anyone could come in and hear them has got them both painfully hard.

"Fuck, Gerard. You were fucking _made_ for suckin' cock. You've done this before, huh?" Frank's breath hitches in the last few words and Gerard knows he's close. He carries in, swirling his tongue against the head in a way that makes the man above him shudder.

He can hear Frank coming closer and closer towards the edge, and just when he'd prepared to take a load in his mouth, the other man pulled out.

"Wanna last," he mumbles weakly.

"Frank," Gerard pants. "Fuck me."

Frank's mouth hangs open in shock, before he begins to smile.

"Here?"

"Where else?" Gerard rubs Frank's half hard cock, and he moans in surprise.

"I got a condom," he says quickly as he rummages in his jeans pocket."but no lube..."

"It's okay, we can use spit," Gerard replies, and he tries not to laugh at how un-sexy that sentence was. Frank nods and quickly rolls the protection on. Gerard shifts so that he's sitting on the toilet seat, and he wraps his legs tight around Frank's middle as he preps him with two fingers.

"Ah," Gerard moans as he feels the sweet burn that comes with being stretched out. Frank fucks him with his fingers for another twenty seconds before pulling them out.

"C'mon Frank, wanna feel you inside me," he groans in longing and pumps his own leaking cock. Frank runs his guitar-calloused hands down Gerard's smooth thighs, teasing his entrance.

"Please," Gerard begs, and Frank brings a hand down on the soft flesh of his thigh with a smack.

"Shut up," he whispers. 

Gerard bites down on his lip and whimpers as Frank begins to slide his hand up and down his dick, the other roughly pushing fingers in and out of him.

His whole body is quivering in anticipation as Frank finally spits on his hand and pushes in.

The warmth and tightness is overwhelming, sand he clenched his teeth at the initial stab of pain. Frank showers his neck with kisses and sets up a fast pace, his hands gripping Gerard's hips firmly.

They come at the same time: Gerard's back arching and his hips pushed down, Frank's head tipping towards the ceiling.

Frank collapses on top of Gerard. Both of them are a shuddering, sweaty mess. They stay together for several long seconds, sticky and boneless.

"We should head back," breathes Frank. Gerard nods wordlessly and they use the toilet paper to wipe off. They wash their hands and Frank helps Gerard smooth down his hair so that he doesn't look like he's just had rough, public-bathroom sex and they manage to make it back to where they're seating only looking a little flushed.

There's another, unfamiliar man sitting beside Ryan, in the empty space Gerard had noticed earlier. As they approach the table, he looks up and grins at them, and Gerard sees that his teeth are gold.

"Guys," Patrick introduces them with a wave of his hand. Gerard notices that he's determinedly not looking at the man.

"This is Shane Morris, the guy I was telling you about earlier."

"Sup bros!" To Gerard, this guy is terrifying. He has small eyes that glint in his large, round face. The face was made even more circular by the unflattering buzz-cut, and his grills reflected light from the overhanging resaurant lamps.

"I'm gonna make sure you guys are playing the right kind of stuff to the right kind of crowd," he tells them.

"I've already met the little dude behind the first band," he ruffled Ryan's hair, who seemed to be looking around desperately for an escape route. "So where's the frontman of the main act?"

Shane is looking at Gerard expectantly, and he quickly shakes his head and motions to Frank. Immediately, Shane ignores him and starts shaking Frank's hand, putting an arm around him and calling him "bro."

Frank looks uncomfortable but rolls with it as he and Ryan are pulled into a business-type discussion.

Looking over at the rest of the guys, Gerard sees that they're just as perplexed. Patrick was glaring at the back of Shane's head.

"He doesn't know shit," the blond man mutters angrily. "All he cares about is making money off of this tour."

"Drinks are on me!" Yells Shane from his end of the table. Looking over, Gerard catches Patrick rolling his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If we're not careful he could cause a lot more trouble."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this story is nearing it's climax, and I might not update my other fic until this one's finished. Anyway, the title is a lyric from a song called Dianne Young by the Vaccines. I've been listening to them a lot lately because I've been given backstage passes for them by a friend and I wanna know their material!!!

Pete is only awake twenty minutes when his apartment phone ring shrilly. Already knowing who it was, he grins and picks it up.

"Yo."

"I _told_ you to get a new van," comes Patrick's exasperated voice on the other end of the receiver. "Seriously Pete, how do you expect is to stay on schedule when they arrive three hours late?"

"Nice to hear from you too, Patty Cakes," Pete laughs, and he hears Patrick's little huff of annoyance.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry man. I did forget, but I'll get on it. I promise, by the time they're heading back, they'll have a state-of-the-art tour bus."

"With a full gas tank," amends Patrick, though Pete notices that he sounds mollified, and laughs.

"I miss you," he says fondly, and he imagines Patrick huddled outside the venue, looking harried as they talk.

"Life's getting harder by the day when you're not in it," he responds dryly, though Pete can tell he's smiling.

"Love you too, Lunchbox."

"I have a problem though," Pete can tell that his friend is serious, because his voice drops as of he's anxious not to be overheard.

"This Shane guy, Pete, he could really fuck things up. He's already rubbed Frank and Hambone up the wrong way, and I think Ryan's terrified of him."

"I don't fuckin' blame him," growls Pete. He couldn't imagine what possessed the L.A. venue company to employ and, even worse, send him to manage them.

"He's dodgy too... Gerard told me that he tried to grope one of the cleaning maids or something."

"Just keep an eye on him till I get there, 'kay?" Pete asks."And look after Gerard too. He's new to this shit and Mikey Way will kill me if Shane fuckin' murders him or whatever."

"Sure thing, see you."

"Love ya, my little granola bar."

Pete hangs up just as Patrick gives an indignant splutter at the nickname. He grins to himself, but the smile soon fades as he imagines what chaos asshole-Morris is reeking up in L.A without anyone to keep him in line.

He just hopes no one gets into any serious trouble.

Pencey and Panic play their first show that night. Gerard can feel the nerves making his stomach fizzle, and all he has to do is hand the performers their guitars. 

The bands themselves don't seem too worried though: Frank and Tim start up a game of strip poker and Spencer and Jon quickly join in. 

Gerard sees that Ryan is leaning against the hotel corridor walls. Brendon is beside him, his arm on the older man's once more. They're conversing in low, nervous tones when Gerard walks over and asks what's up.

"It's that Shane dude," Ryan replies, his forehead creasing. "He offered me salvia after we left the restaurant."

"What's salvia?" Asked Gerard, feeling dumb and very uncool.

"It's like, this drug that makes you all peppy, maybe like speed but not as bad," explains Brendon. He's still peering worriedly at Ryan.

"I mean, we all smoke pot, and the thing alone isn't a really big deal, but it's the _principle._ Shane doesn't know Ryan, and he's already giving him stuff..."

"It's fine Bren," says Ryan. His forehead is still creased, but he gives both of them a small smile.

"I mean, who am I to judge? He was probably just trying to be friendly."

Ryan stood up, his loose brown trousers flapping.

"Now, are we gonna join in or not? Five bucks Brendon is naked in ten minutes."

If Gerard thought that the two bands weren't nervous, he was wrong. They drive up to the venue, three hours before the concert is due and Ryan and Tim are visibly quiet.

Tim is the voice of reason in Pencey: constantly trying to rein in Frank and stop Hambone from egging him on. Gerard sees the others laugh at how sensible he is, and he also sees that Tim always smiles when they do. 

This time, the mans lean face is sweating slightly, and Ryan is clammy and silent.

"We're gonna fuck this gig into next week, broskis!" Leers Shane as they climb out of the van. He wraps an arm around Frank, and the shorter man irritably pushes his arm away.

Hambone and John laugh, and Gerard watches Shane's smile slip and a hint of anger cross his face. Then, the dark expression vanishes and he leads them into the venue.

Gerard gets the impression that the concert venue was built to mimic the old, Victoria-Style theatres. Maybe it was supposed to be ironic: a pretty hall hosting punk shows or whatever. He and Ray follow Bob into the spacious tech room.

Two women are busily tapping away on apple laptops. They're both dark, and extremely pretty. One of them looks up and smiles. 

"Guys, this is Jamia and Lyn-Z" Patrick says and the chick already standing (Lyn-Z) shakes their hands. Jamia simply waves cheerfully before going back to typing.

"We're the venue lighting crew," Lyn-Z says cheerfully. "So we're gonna be working with you guys tonight to deliver the best possible show, right?"

"For sure," Bob nods. He's clearly impressed by their professionalism, and he's not the only one. Gerard can't help but notice how pretty Lyn-Z's dimples are.

"Which one of you guys is Gerard, by the way?" Lyn-Z asks. Gerard jumps and raises his hand. She makes a beckoning motion.

"Did you bring your own pedals?" She asks.

"Um, no," all of a sudden, Gerard feels inexperienced. Lyn-Z has clearly been doing this for a good while, whereas he's just some newbie.

"Not to worry," she beams. "That means we get to use the new equipment! C'mon," Bob and Ray are left to work the logistics of sound and light with Jamia as Lyn-Z leads him down a corridor.

"Have you been doing this a while?" He asks her.

"Almost a year now. I'm currently sessioning for this band, but I don't think it's gonna last. The frontman's a dick."

"Oh," Gerard watched her unlock a door. "What do you play?"

"Bass mainly. Anyway, wait 'till you see the stuff we got. It's fucking incredible."

It's now that Gerard begins to understand how well-funded this tour is. He has fun looking at all of the fancy, Hi-Fi equipment and Lyn-Z gives him a timetable of all the guitar change-overs.

"Fuck, you've just, like, eliminated all of my worries," he sighs in relief and she laughs.

"I know what it's like, being on your first proper tour, I got your back," her smile is genuine as they head back to meet up with Ray and Bob, who are just about finished.

"Jamia knows what's up," Ray declares. "I don't think she even needs us."

"Oh youuu," she drawls and pretends to blush, but looks pleased all the same. 

Gerard's heard most of the guys complain about the lack of women, and he half-laughs, half-cringes at Ray's obvious excitement in having someone female around. He thinks Jamia knows too, because she and Lyn-Z exchange a smirk and take it all in their stride.

Panic are currently practising centre stage, with Pencey standing below organising a game of kickball. Ryan still looks nervous as hell, and he clings to his large, 1970's-style guitar, almost hiding behind it.

They jump into Mad As Rabbits, and Gerard bounces on the balls of his feet in time to the drum intro. Halfway through, he spots Shane stage-left behind the curtain, watching Brendon perform with a frown on his face.

Oblivious, Brendon is clearly having the time of his life. He does a quick backflip off one of Jon's speakers just as the final chord strikes, and everyone claps.

Frank's arms slip around Gerard's waist from behind, and the frontman nuzzles his neck affectionately. Gerard tries to pull away, embarrassed, but Frank just laughs and squeezes his upper arm affectionately.

"We have twenty minutes till sound check, come play kickball with me."

It is only when the fans have poured into the hall and occupied every inch of space that this feels remotely real to Gerard. He watches as Panic storm on stage to the saturated room, all flowers and corduroy pants.

Lyn-Z is on the opposite side of back stage, occasionally running behind the curtain to Gerard and Ray's side and sending instructions to Jamia in the sound booth via her walkie-talkie. Gerard gets the impression that even if he tried to sabotage the show, he wouldn't be successful. 

Maybe Pencey are nervous too, because even Frank is playing less violently than usual. By the time they've played a good six songs, Gerard's only had to replace one string. This means that he has more time to make decisions, to stand back and get a sense of the bands as a whole.

He's doing just that when he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

"Pencey are killing it," he says happily, assuming that the hand belongs to Ray or Brendon.

"They certainly are, dude."

Gerard jumps and turns around, taking a step back when he sees Shane. The tour manager is wearing a vivid red, "YOLO" SnapBack that reminds him of blood. He points to Frank onstage, furiously head banging.

"That lead guy, the singer. He your boyfriend?"

Perhaps Shane had seen the earlier public display of affection. Gerard hast considered this before, and he paused before answering it.

"Honestly, I don't really know. We're still figuring stuff out." He doesn't know if he feels comfortable taking about his relationship status to a near stranger.

"Ah, I get it bro. I tell ya what, though. He lowers his voice and his gold teeth glint.

"Those girls that work for the venue: fucking hot. I saw you talking to one of them earlier. God, I'd fuck her so hard."

"She's good-looking," now Gerard is really uncomfortable. He looks around and, mercifully, sees that it's time for a change-over.

"Um, nice talking, Shane. I gotta go...go do my job now."

By the time the last fan has filtered out and the bands themselves are a mess of sweat and beer, even Ryan has to admit that "it went okay."

Gerard had always thought that Pete was crazy for letting two bands of completely different sounds your together, but it had somehow worked. Panic's first album, on sale in CD form by the merch table, is all but sold out and Brendon is on cloud nine.

Everyone's drinking to celebrate, but Shane is by far the most intoxicated. They watch as he downs shots like water and becomes increasingly boisterous.

"Let's get out of here," Brendon whispers to Gerard and Frank as Shane begins to tell a drunken (and probably fictitious) story about the time he "fucked three bitches in Milan."

Soon, they're all sitting on the grassy verge by the front of the venue, smoking and watching the occasional car whizz by. It's Hambone who breaks the peaceful silence.

"What are you all gonna do when this tour is over?" He asks.

"Marry my girlfriend," Jon replies without hesitation. There's a chorus of "aww's" and he obligingly takes out his phone and shows them all a picture of a pretty brunette woman laughing at the camera.

"I'm gonna move out of my parents' basement," declares Tim.

"Don't do that, your mom and dad and me will be lonely," says Shaun and they all laugh.

Brendon lies back on the sparse grass and blows his black fringe out of his eyes.

"I just hope that we have enough to do another tour, y'know? Maybe work on another album next year..."

"I hope that we get rid of Shane," Frank interjects. Everyone starts laughing at his bluntness, but the laughter dies away when they see Lyn-Z marching towards them, looking angry.

"That guy with the fucking SnapBack," she fumes. "Who is he anyway? I was clearing up with Bob and Jamia and he made a fucking _pass at me._ "

"Shit," mumbles Spencer.

"What a fucking dickhead," says Frank, his lip curled into a sneer. He pulls Gerard closer to him. "D'you want me to go, like, kill him or something? Defend your honour?"

Lyn-Z smirks.

"I can defend my own honour, thanks. I kicked him in the balls."

Gerard hopes that there's no neighbours nearby to get annoyed at their loud laughter.

"Lyn-Z," says Frank. "I think I love you."

"In all seriousness though, we should tell Patrick," voices Spencer. "He doesn't like him either."

"Who does?" Sighs Gerard. He can't be bothered to be embarrassed by the fact that frank is stealing quick little kisses on his cheek. He accepts a cigarette from Tim, lights up and exhales.

"If we're not careful he could cause a lot more trouble."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard has the sense that Frank wants to continue this, that he has something else to say. He closes his eyes and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back after a long hiatus!!! What can I say? I started a new school full of completely new people, I'm juggling four subjects and my grandmother is ill. Still, I sense this fic is coming to an end, and I'm super excited I pick up "I got a knack for elimination" although I'm feelin likely hat isn't the right name for that fic...if ou guys have any title suggestions hmu!! The chapter title is a lyric from the song "Jude Law And A Semester Abroad" by Brand New...enjoy and sorry for the delay!

Mornings in California aren't like any mornings Gerard has ever known before. He guessed that the sun rose in pink skies like normal, but by the time he and the others get up at 9:00 AM the day is already in full swing.

The blinding sunlight and a massive hangover causes Brendon to wear shades and pull his lavender hoodie all the way up when they go down to breakfast. It seems that the only other people on the hotel are very old, and they glare at them over their cornflakes. 

Brendon's living the rock star life," Ryan giggles as the teenager slumps over the table: his head in his arms.

"Fuck you," he groans, but Gerard sees a smile tug at his lips. "I'm never drinking again, ever."

"Sure sure," Frank laughs, but after this exchange there isn't much conversation, and Gerard knows why. He knows that Frank, Hambone and Brendon won't be back to their normal selves until Patrick shows up with last night's concert review.

Ryan, Brendon, Frank and Gerard finish at the breakfast buffet before the others, and Frank suggests they go out the backs and have a smoke to curb everyone's nerves.

"I would, but I don't want to fuck up my voice," sighs Brendon. He watches Gerard and Frank smoke mournfully, but perks up when Ryan jogs his shoulder.

"It's okay, we're gonna live longer."

"Fuck off," grumbles Frank. "You sound just like my mom." He curls his arm around Gerard, and instantly he feels that same, swooping sensation in his stomach. 

Patrick's blonde head suddenly pokes out of the door they'd came through, his forehead all scrunched up.

"There you are," he grumbles, but before he can say anything else, Brendon has pounced on him.

"Did you get the review? What did it say? Fuck, _did they like us?"_

"Christ," laughs Frank, watching the scene with a bemused expression on his gradually tanning face. Gerard thinks, not for the first time, about how used to gigging the front man must be, or if he's nervous he's a pro at hiding it.

"Come and see for yourselves," grins Patrick.

The breakfast hall is empty, so they can all whoop and fist-pump the air without worried about being stared at and shushed.

"Rising talent with a striking ability to hold the audience's attention" reads Spencer in delight. The local magazine is fairly respected, Patrick says, so Gerard is glad to hear that this could gain Panic their own fan base at the next few Pencey shows.

"Brilliant," breathes Ryan. His arms are curled around Brendon's middle: chin on shoulder. 

"I'm gonna cut that review out and put it on my wall back home," says Frank to Gerard. 

Suddenly, it doesn't matter that everyone's there, because Gerard knows that they've already seen them acting like a couple. He bumps his lips against Frank's, and then pulls him into a deep kiss. Vaguely, he can hear Tim laugh and Shaun go "aww," but what's filling his senses into overdrive is that Frank's lips are open against his, and they're curled into a smile.

"Adorable," says a familiar voice. Gerard breaks away from Frank, turning to the speaker like everyone else.

Pete has one hand casually draped on Mikey Way's shoulder, but his excited grin ruins the front.

"Mikey?" gasps Gerard. His younger brother is smiling too.

"Hey Gee, hey Frank."

"What are you guys doing here?" Brendon exclaims in delight. All four of the Panic boys rush forward to hug their manager, and John gives Mikey a high five.

"I read the review, and I thought I'd come out and say "congratulations" in person," laughs Pete. "As for Mikey, he missed Pencey's New York set." 

"You came all the way to L.A to see 'lil old us?" Hambone asks mockingly. 

"Don't flatter yourselves," Mikey replies tonelessly. "I don't turn down free holidays." Frank snickers. Pete manages to detaches himself from Ryan and moves over to Patrick.

"Hey," smiles the short man, but Pete simply wraps his arms around the tour manager's middle and pulls him into a tight hug. 

"Nice to see you too," Patrick laughs, blushing furiously.

"You haven't tanned one bit," Pete exclaims, pushing Patricks floppy fringe out of the way. Gerard thinks that Pete's genuinely forgotten about the rest of them, and he's glad when Frank clears his throat. Hambone laughs. Pete jumps and takes a step back.

"Anyway, it's great to see you guys. Great fucking job on last night's gig. We've got a _ton_ of interest for tomorrow's."

"Half if it was down to the techs," nods Spencer, and Ray and Mikey grin at Gerard, who obviously feels that he should blush.

"Yup," he says. "Lyn-Z and Jamia were awesome."

"Christ," sighs Frank. He turns to Gerard pragmatically. "Can't you just accept that you're an incredible tech who holds the whole gig together?"

Everyone laughs and Gerard rolls his eyes and makes a face, but he can't do anything to hide the now-familiar warm feeling filling him up inside. If this were a cartoon, he'd be doing that cheesy float-a-few-inches-off-the-ground thing, complete with love hearts for eyes.

He catches Mikey laughing at him good-naturedly, and flips him off when no one's looking.

"So," continues Pete. "I don't know what you were all planning to do today, but I've got a suggestion."

"Pete, we'd love to help you plan your date with Patrick, but that kind of thing's private." Says Shaun sympathetically.

"If Patrick were meaner, he'd have told Shaun to fuck off. Instead, he and Pete laugh along with everyone else.

"I thought that maybe we could go to the beach, have a barbecue and chill out, you guys deserve some time off," Gerard laughs as Brendon fist-pumps the air and Frank winds an arms round his middle.

"Besides," laughs Pete. "It's a beautiful day."

Gerard isn't really one for swimming, or any kind of sport at all. When Frank asked Mikey if he'd be joining them, he'd laughed and said that "Ways don't do water." As he tries not to stare at the others; at Frank's lean torso and Ryan's scrawny shoulders, he can't help but think that Mikey may be right. 

Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, He folds his arms over his soft belly as they all finish changing behind the nearby bushes. Mikey had opted to go back to the hotel, claiming that he was exhausted after the flight.

Gerard watches as Brendon charges into the waves, dragging Ryan behind him and knocking over a little kid's sandcastle in the process. Pete is left to apologise to the irritated mother and Patrick offers to help the girl build a new one.

"You okay?"

Frank nudges Gerard's side, causing him to jump. His tattoos gleam under the sun tan lotion and his hair has been shaken out of its Mohawk.

"Do you not like swimming?" He asks.

"It's not that...it's okay, I'm just a bit...apprehensive," Gerard replies, because he can't think of any way to say that he feels like a pasty, blobby worm in the midst of lean tanned butterflies without sounding like a teenage girl.

"You mean that you're scared of getting... _wet_ ," Frank wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and Gerard, still imagining exactly how a butterfly could be lean and tanned, collapses into a fit of giggles.

"You're such a dork," he laughs, but doesn't protest when Frank leads him into the shallow water. Hambone is busy attempting to duck Tim, and he splashes so violently that it sprays Gerard and goes up his nose.

"Fuck, it's cold!" He exclaims.

"We'll it's the ocean, you ass," replies Jon. "You just gotta get down into it and swim around. If you stay there all day you're gonna be freezing."

"Right," says Gerard. "I don't know if anyone has noticed this, but I'm standing in the middle of the Pacific fucking Ocean with a bunch of hyper-active teenagers and a punk band. Also, our record manager is coming towards us with a bright pink blow-up dolphin."

"Stop whining and have some fun!" Commands Frank. He grabs Gerard's wrist and yanks him down into the water. Gerard gasps, and then splutters as he sinks below the surface. He knows that he's only waist deep, but suddenly it feels like much more. He reaches out and grabs someone's arm, and that person suddenly hauls him back up into the safe, breathable sunlight.

"Drama queen," giggles Ryan, but the person who's arm (Frank, Gerard realises, its Frank) he's grabbing, is peering at him worriedly.

"Can you not swim? Here, hold onto this," Pete thrusts the large, plastic dolphin at Gerard, but by this time he realises the there's that thing called solid ground beneath his feet, and he's letting his toes sink into the murky sand.

"I'm not even going to ask where you got that thing," sighs Shaun. Pete clearly doesn't want his hair getting wet, because he's stuck a too-small swimming cap over his head, and straightened tufts peek out comically from underneath.

"I walked past the beach shop...I saw the dolphin...who could resist?" He says calmly. He jerks the dolphin away from Gerard. "If you're not going to appreciate Lorenzo, then you can't have him."

"Lorenzo," Frank snorts in disbelief. "Fucking _Lorenzo. _"__

He turns back to Gerard.

"Look, I didn't mean to like, force you into the sea or whatever. If you want you can go sit with Ray by the hut. He can't swim either."

"I can swim," Gerard says patiently. "Just not...well. You don't get much practice when you live in Belleville."

"Okay, then," says Frank calmly. "We'll go slow."

In twenty minutes time, Gerard has forgotten to worry about how poorly toned and pale he is because he's busy trying to duck Ryan, who in turn is attempting to organise them all into an adequate beach-ball team. 

Soon, people start to leave the beach. The sun dips lower and lower an they stay in the sea, their skin prickling with goosebumps. Frank swims further out to catch the large, rolling waves and Gerard ends up joining him. He loves the feeling of letting his limbs go limp: allowing the current to push him and Frank back with each swell, until they end up crashing on the beach, breathless with laughter.

Gerard hates all that cheesy, walking-in-the-park, holding-hands-in-winter hallmark shit that comes with being in a couple. He did his fair share of it with Eliza, and his girlfriend before her. Now, as Frank's hair drips wet sand onto his cheek when they kiss, he thinks that he'll be able to let it go just once.

"We're so gay," he mumbles a they break apart.

"Yeah, I guess that's why I'm kissing you right now."

"Fuck off," Gerard smeared a gloop of murky sand across Frank's chest in retaliation. "You know what I mean, kissing on the _beach?_ Seriously? Why can't we bust the stereotype? Why didn't we meet at a body building tournament or...something more manly."

"Because you're not manly," says Frank simply. "I can't imagine you lifting anything, _ever._ "

"I could," protests Gerard. "I could _totally_ body build! I used to be the one who got the lid off the mustard jar and..."

He bites his lip, realising that he's rambling out of sheer nerves. Why the hell is he nervous? Despite the fact that he's spent more than two weeks in Frank's company, he still feels just as nervous and hesitant as he did the first time he saw him.

"Whatever," laughs Frank. "Do you want to go back to the other guys? I think whoever wins Ryan's beach ball tournament gets free beer."

The current has carried them a lot further out than they'd thought, and it took them a good ten minutes to get back to the stretch of sand where everyone else was.

"I fucking won!" Whoops Spencer. Ryan and Brendon are scowling, so Gerard can guess what team they were on quite easily.

"Free beer here we come!" Shaun runs back to an indistinguishable figure, standing way at the top of the beach where the sand has been left unmarked by the waves.

Frank starts running too, but by now Gerard's way too tired to keep up. He lags behind and makes his own way to where everyone else is headed. He's about a hundred meters away when he recognises the figure to be Shane, and the black block a barbecue. Pete has put Lorenzo on guard of the blankets and clothes and is handing out drinks.

"The meat should be ready in a few minutes time, guys," says Shane cheerfully. Patrick sits down quietly and unwinds his headphones from his iPod. Pete immediately yanks then away.

"Hey, don't be anti-social! I brought a boom-box for a reason y'know."

Gerard gets the sense that if any one else but Pete had taken Patrick's music away from him, there'd be hell to pay. Instead, Patrick says "fuck yeah!" and in no time they have a party atmosphere.

The smell of bacon and the sound of burgers and hotdogs sizzling on the grill mixes in with the upbeat music, a decent band that Pete has just signed by the name of New Politics.

At first Frank sulks because there's nothing veggie, but it turns out that Patrick brought tofu just in case, so Gerard can eat his burger without feeling bad. Ryan and Brendon are slow dancing, and Shaun and Pete have set up some dumb drinking game.

"It's a beach-bash," smiles Ryan. He hands Gerard and Frank a bottle, but Gerard notices that he doesn't get one for himself.

"Let's party up tonight!" Says Frank. "Y'know, all that "we are young" pop-punk shit!"

"There's nothing wrong with pop-punk," chides Pete, before downing a shot. Tim applauds enthusiastically.

"Didn't say there was," retorts Frank. "But I feel like I'm in some MTV music video..."

"Except there are no chicks, am I right?" Interrupts Shane. He takes a bite of his burger. "I mean, we need a bit of pussy, where are those tech girls?"

"Why don't you call them and ask?" Says Brendon innocently. "I mean, you told me you got Jamia's number."

Shane pointedly ignores Brendon's comment and, instead, diverts his attention elsewhere.

"Hey Frank, can I have a word with you?"

He's now staring at the Pencey front man, who raises his eyebrows before turning to Gerard and giving an apologetic shrug.

"Yeah, um, sure thing."

Gerard watches Frank walk away, feeling a growing sense of unease. He turns back to the group. Brendon, Ryan, Spencer and Jon are cackling and Patrick's expression matches his own.

"Well, that was weird," voices Pete. His brow furrows. "Maybe Shane's gonna like, strip off his human skin and eat him or something."

"The _Doctor Who_ set is that way," says Gerard, pointing to the left. Everyone laughs, and soon it seems that Frank's absence is forgotten. He has another beer, and Tim ends up digging a sand-hole and puking in it.

"You should have gone into the sea for that," says Hambone. "Food for the fishes."

"You're disgusting," mutters Tim, his face pale. He shakily wipes his chin and looks around.

"Hey, Iero!"

Frank is walking slowly towards them, hands in his short pockets. He ambles to a halt. Stares at Gerard.

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

 _Maybe Frank is possessed,_ thinks Gerard. _Maybe he wants to "talk to me" so that he can eat me and steal my body, just like Shane did to him._

They go back over to the scuzzy, prickly bushes they changed behind hours earlier and Frank immediately plops down and fumbles in his pocket for a light. He leaves Gerard in anticipation, making sure that his cigarette is lit and that he's taken a long, deep drag before speaking.

"So, Shane asked me to leave _Angels & Kings_ and join his label, which he's just started."

_"What?"_

Gerard is torn between laughing and ripping Shane's stupid face off. He watches Frank glare off into the dark, windy night, one hand cupped protectively around his cancer stick.

"But...you're not gonna actually leave, are you?" He ventures. "I mean, Pete's a genius. He organised this whole tour, and Shane's just in it for the money..."

Frank glares at Gerard, and for a second he actually feels scared. Then the shorter man's expression softens.

"Of fucking course not, dummy. I told him to go fuck himself. I said that I'd rather disband Pencey than change it to his shitty label."

"Woah," says Gerard, impressed and shocked. "I didn't know you hated him so much!"

"You don't get it," Frank sighs. He blows a wisp of smoke into the air.

"Pete gave me everything. It was just the way he asked. Waiting 'till Pete's drunk and then pulling me aside like that, as if if want to sign into his shitty, seedy label..."

Frank trails off and throws and arm around Gerard, who's grateful for the warmth. He snuggles in closer and the two allow the salty breeze to do the talking for them.

"I like you a ton," says Frank suddenly. He's staring at their intertwined feet, crusty from sand.

"I mean, I don't even know what this thing is...this crazy, kinky sex thing we've got going on..."

"Neither do I," replies Gerard, his face hot. "I guess it's pretty cool though."

Frank huffs a laugh through his nose. "Yeah, it really is."

Gerard has the sense that Frank wants to continue this, that he has something else to say. He closes his eyes and waits.

"C'mon guys; we're playing beer pong!" Brendon hollers across the flat dunes. Frank stands up abruptly and dusts himself off. He extends a hand to Gerard and hauls him to his feet.

"We'll talk more later, 'kay? Don't worry about Shane, he'll be gone in a week."

The way the guitarist's lips brush up against Gerard's neck makes him shiver. He nods, and they make their way back got he group, now illuminated by a makeshift bonfire.

To Gerard's dismay, he spots Shane on the fringe of the inferno, his eyes fixed on Patrick as he strums a song on a battered guitar. Gerard goes to sit beside Frank, but he doesn't want to make Patrick move and stop playing. There isn't room anyhow. Reluctantly, he flops down beside Shane.

"You alright?" He nudges Gerard painfully in the ribs.

"Yeah," he replies shortly.

"You need to loosen up!" The gold grills on Shane's teeth are the same lurid amber as the flickering flames. Gerard tries to look away.

"Have you had a drink? Here," a bottle is pushed into his hand and, jus for something to do with his face, Gerard takes a gulp. He lets his gaze drift to Pete's unsteady laugh and Hambone's tattoo sleeve as he uses the fire to light himself a cigarette.

He still doesn't know how long he sat there. At first he feels slightly strange, then, in an hours time, he knows that something's wrong.

"Gerard, what's up?"

The voice is concerned, but he doesn't think he can open his mouth to answer. He stumbles, trying to walk away into the cool, quiet dark. Away from the bonfire.

 _"Gerard!"_

He thinks he recognises Frank's voice this time, filled with panic. He tries to speak again to tell everyone that he's fine...he just wants to sleep.

The last thing he remembers is hitting the ground, his mouth filling with blood.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He takes one more sweeping look at the room, and is immeasurably glad that he did. Frank is sprawled across three plastic chairs, impossibly asleep in such an uncomfortable position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it!! I loved writing this and I'm sad to end it but I can't wait to continue my other unfinished fic so yeah. The chapter title is a song by The Killers :-)

When Gerard next decides to come back into consciousness, the first thing he registers is how heavy his arms are. Maybe he's managed to become really buffed during his departure, but when he cracks his eyes open and looks down, he sees that his arms are weighed down by bandages and he's lying on a flat kind of bed.

"Oh," he mumbles. "I wanted to be ripped."

It then occurs to him that he's probably high on painkillers, if he's in a hospital as he suspects. He tries flapping his arms, and then contents himself with wiggling his toes.

"Mr. Way?"

A doctor has entered the room and is peering at him concernedly, holding a pager.

"Do you remember what happened?" He asks. Gerard shakes his head.

"You burned your arms and went into shock. The burns are first degree, so we won't need to keep you in overnight or do any operating. Your friends were simply worried and they called an ambulance for you. "

"An ambulance?" Asks Gerard, feeling quite disappointed that he was unconscious for that part. He wonders if they turned on the sirens...

We've bandaged then up, but most of the healing is down to Mother Nature." He smiled faintly and presses a button on the black pager.

"How long have I been sleeping?" Inquires Gerard. He sits up and flexed his arms, wincing at the dull pain.

"You slept through the night, but that was probably more down to the fact that you'd had a lot to drink. It's ten to two in the afternoon."

"Okay," says Gerard slowly. "Am I gonna be alright? I mean, no deformities, no near-death experiences...?"

The doctor laughs.

"You'll be fine, we usually don't even _admit_ first degree burns, but some of your friends insisted that you'd had your drink spiked. We took some blood tests; they'll come back in a couple of days."

"I... _What!?_ " Splutters Gerard. He remembers the sudden aching of his head, the way his eyelids had drooped. Even as he wonders how and who, the face and name come right into his mind. But why? What had he done to get fucking _drugged?_ "

"They all went back to the their hotel, I think," says the doctor. "You were lucky, you came in during our quiet period. I haven't dealt with burns in a while, it was nice to do it again..."

He waves his hand dismissively, and Gerard wonders how much sleep he's gotten.

"Usually the nurses do the bandaging now, and I really do miss the hands-on work. Bandaging burns really were my speciality..."

"Riiiiight," ventures Gerard, wondering if this is all some alcohol-fuelled dream. "I'm sorry... Doctor...?"

"Doctor Lewis," says the grey-haired man says, looking like he's just come out of a deep revelry.

"Doctor Lewis. Can I go, then? I've got my health insurance card...you said my friends were back at the hotel?"

"Yes yes, of course" the doctor smiles sorrowfully. "I'll be sad to see you leave...I doubt we'll get more burns for a while..."

"Okay," says Gerard loudly. "I'll fill reforms in at reception, then? Bye. Thanks for the...bandaging."

He pushes himself off the flat bed and, relieved to see that he's not wearing one of those sterilised-hospital gown things, but his own ripped jeans and "life's a beach" shirt, he follows the plastic signs until he gets out into the wide reception. A middle-aged guy and his little kid are sitting in the waiting chairs, but aside from that the place is deserted.

He takes one more sweeping look at the room, and is immeasurably glad that he did. Frank is sprawled across three plastic chairs, impossibly asleep in such an uncomfortable position.

Gerard approaches him, carefully giving his foot a little prod with his. The result is instant. Frank jerks awake, scrambling back into a sitting position and looking around, startled.

"Hey," says Gerard.

Frank looks at him blearily for a second, and then his eyes go wide.

"Gerard, shit! Are you okay?! Sit down!"

"I'm fine!," says Gerard, bemused. He's pushed into a chair anyway, an Frank is staring at him, running one hand through his tousled hair.

"I'm fine," he reassures him again. "Look," he shows him his bandage-clad arms. "First degree. How did that even happen?"

"You fell on the bonfire," Frank explains. "I think it was my fault, really. You like, kind of stumbled away and I called your name and you turned around and kind of tried to walk back, but you just fell into the fire."

"Ouch," Gerard winces.

"Yeah. Pete rolled you over until it went out and Ryan, like, threw sea water on you so..."

Gerard struggles not to laugh at the mental image of bring rolled over by Pete. He suddenly remembers something else.

"What the hell is all this stuff about being drugged?" He demands. Frank's grin slides off his face.

"Yeah," he sighs. "We're sure it was Shane. I mean I don't know why he had that kind of stuff with him. Hambone called the cops, and they found a baggie of ketamine on him, so he probably put that in a beer and gave it to you. The blood tests will tell us for sure."

"But why?" Asks Gerard incredulously. "I mean, I might have missed something, but I wasn't aware that I pissed Shane off enough for him to set me _on fire_ by default.

"You didn't," sighs Frank. He rests his head in his hands, shoulders hunched. His next words are muffled.

"I mean, it's obvious. Shane was angry at me for rejecting his signing offer. I didn't exactly make a secret of disliking him. Everyone knew that we were a thing. He spiked your drink to get back at _me._ "

Gerard is speechless for a few seconds. He gapes at Frank, but the more he thinks about it, the more everything falls into place. He also quite likes the idea of him as Frank being a "thing."

"What a dick," he says lamely.

"That's all you've got to say? That creep could have killed you, and it's basically my fault!"

"No way!" Insists Gerard. Seeing Frank sitting on an uncomfortable chair after waiting hors to talk to him and looking so miserable has suddenly brought on a surge of affection for the frontman.

" _You_ didn't put anything in my drink. You didn't ask Shane to do it. You didn't have anything to do with it."

"Well, he's already been fired," says Frank, still looking contrite. "We'll never see him again, and Pete'll make sure that he'll never get work again. If you want, you could press charges when the test results come in."

"Nah," says Gerard. Frank slept in a plastic chair for eight or so hours just to make sure he's really okay. In his opinion, nothing else really matters.

"Are you sure? I mean, you could have really gotten hurt."

"I know, and maybe I'll change my mind later. Right now, I'm kind of tired."

"'Course," says Frank immediately. "Um, Ray called a cab around, we can go back to the hotel, if you want. Mikey is fucking losin' his shit, by the way. He just left to go call your parents using the pay phone back at the hotel."

"Oh, shit," sighed Gerard in mortification. "You'd think I was the baby brother... we better go and meet him, then."

He's seriously convinced that you're dead, y'know," Frank continues. "Brendon had to pull him off Shane when we first started suspecting him."

"Yikes," winces Gerard. Frank stays glued to his side the whole time he sorts out his insurance with the irritable receptionist, and keeps shooting him furtive, apologetic glances.

"It's not even your fault," says Gerard, after the sixth nervous look. They're walking out the automatic doors, and the California sunshine has attacked them ruthlessly, sending boiling jets of heat their way and making them squint.

Frank seems to finally relax, for maybe it's something in Gerard's expression, but he's clearly being genuine.

"I meant to ask," says Gerard playfully. "What's this about us being a _thing_?"

He watches Frank's barely contained smile break free and spread across his face. Everything seeks o be finally letting loose and breaking free. The sun, old friends and old enemies.

"Well," says Frank, equally playfully. "Apparently there are those who think we should...hook up."

Gerard tries not to laugh.

"Really?!" He fakes astonishment. "Where would someone get that idea from?"

"Beats me," chuckles Frank. He opens the door to the cab and they slide in.

"Still," Gerard continues. "Maybe it isn't such a bad idea."

"I was thinking that myself actually," Frank slings an arm around Gerard, and the cab moves away. Gerard pretends that he isn't completely freaking out, and he looks out the window nonchalantly.

"So," says Frank, and once again, Gerard sees the man who can play to thousands without a care in the world fidget with his seatbelt. "What do you say?"

Gerard tries to keep his cool and not scream and throw his arms around the other man. Instead he laughs and tucks his hair behind his ears like the massive dork he is. Frank coughs into his fist.

"So you'll be my...boyfriend or something equally as dumb...?"

"Yeah," says Gerard happily. He laughs and manages to snort unattractively through his nose when they kiss. He knows that a month ago, he'd be mortified, but right now he doesn't care.

Gerard Way is twenty three and he loves his life.


End file.
